


Que Sera, Sera

by vshendria



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Biblical References, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prophecy, Romance, Slow Build, Tomas!whump, impotent!Tomas, priestsinloveactinglikeoldmarriedcouple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-05-19 18:35:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 61,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14879064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vshendria/pseuds/vshendria
Summary: "When God sent revelation in the Bible, it tended to unfold in one mystical sentence.  Maybe two.  There would be a burning bush or a wrestling match with an angel and then it would be over.  Just a bare hint of the violence that theophany brought to the poor, blessed blighter who got to be the protagonist of that particular book and verse.  Having watched it happening to Tomás for months now, Marcus thought, resentfully, that the authors of the Bible had prettied up the stories a fair bit.  Not a lot of people would stand in line to be a prophet if they knew that it was a lot like getting repeatedly stepped on."





	1. Marcus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cutiesonthehorizon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cutiesonthehorizon/gifts).



> Written for the Whump Exchange (I think that's it's proper name), in which I was matched (yay!) with Cutiesonthehorizon. Go figure.
> 
> Title is a reference to the song sung by Doris Day in the Hitchcock film The Man Who Knew Too Much.
> 
> "When I was just a little girl,  
> I asked my mother, what will I be?  
> Will I be pretty, will I be rich?  
> Here's what she said to me.
> 
> Que sera, sera  
> Whatever will be, will be.  
> The future's not ours to see.  
> Que sera, sera."

 

 

                “Are we there yet?” 

                In the front seat of the truck, Marcus and Mouse traded glances.  _Really?_   Mouse mouthed at Marcus. 

                Marcus wondered aloud, “More of the famous sophisticated humour of Tomás Ortega?”

                There was no reply from the back.  Marcus twisted and craned to look over his shoulder and assessed Tomás.  It occurred to him that Tomás was one of the few people on the planet capable of asking that question without irony.

                They had been on the road together, the three of them, for well over two months.  Marcus was more than slightly dumbfounded by how well they got along despite being trapped together in the small space of the truck for many hours at a time. 

                It helped that Marcus and Mouse shared an entente to keep Tomás away from the wheel.  More often than not, Tomás ended up in the back seat, a circumstance that he accepted with good grace.  Often he would build himself a nest there, with some pillows that Marcus had pinched from various motels, stretching out to catch up on some of his lost sleep.  And it was alternating shifts of two hours each with the radio station.  For Marcus it was always blues or classic rock.  Mouse claimed to hate music and always put on talk radio.  For Tomás anything Latino, regardless of genre, as it reminded him of home—but since Latino music was not always available, mostly he fell back on techno or, shockingly, Top 40 bubble gum pop.  Tomás was spared Marcus’s opinions only by an absolute moratorium on complaint or judgement about the tastes of others in the truck.  Marcus had nearly chewed his tongue off with the effort of restraining his comments but peace was maintained.

                A similar approach worked reasonably well when it came to choosing restaurants.  The problem was that, since everything was on Mouse’s dime these days, Marcus had a difficult time feeling like he should assert his desires and he kept trying to choose whatever was cheapest, ordering off the $5.00 menu at Waffle House, risking his innards with a Monday fish special at a diner in middle America—and eliciting frustrated overrides from Mouse.  As for Tomás, his appetite was chancy these days and Marcus gave private thanks to God whenever he consumed any calories at all. 

                Mouse had spent years cultivating her resources.  Like a cyber-Robin-Hood with a gang of merry hackers, she’d been robbing the filthy rich to support the efforts of free-lancers like herself, taking from aspiring demons to give to their victims.  Without her, Marcus and Tomás would have been no more than two itinerant do-gooders without the means to feed themselves; they no longer had the wealth of the Church to depend on, not since Bennett had been lost and they had been detached from the Office of Exorcism.  Indeed, they had to make every effort to stay off the Church’s radar, so Tomás couldn’t have returned to his position in Chicago even had he wanted to. 

                So Marcus and Tomás were dependent on Mouse, and Marcus had a difficult time with it, not because of any sort of antiquated gender politics, but because Mouse had spent the last twenty years acquiring this hoard and now they were depleting it rapidly—or so he feared. 

                He didn’t give a toss for stealing from rich, immoral people, although Tomás had had a little more trouble reconciling it.  “I’m a priest and I’m living off the proceeds of crime,” he’d worried.

                “It’s either that,” Marcus had replied, “or you starve.  You do the moral math.”

                In this way they had zig-zagged their way from Terre Haute to just outside Chicago without any serious interpersonal conflict, stopping several times to deal with demon infestations.

                As Marcus considered him, Tomás rubbed the now almost-perpetual furrow between his eyes.  His pupils were dilated to two different sizes, a sure sign that a new vision was pending.  In the hours before, Tomás would get variably confused, fuzzy, or sleepy and he would become difficult to steer, like a shopping cart with a rusted wheel. 

                But they had saved three souls in the past month alone because of his visions.  It was not what Marcus ever had envisioned for himself and certainly not what he would have chosen for Tomás, but with the loss of Bennett and the Church’s support, the visions were the best compass they had.  And God had made His expectations pretty damn clear.  Revelation _would_ keep coming.  Their only choice was to act upon it or not.

                “Not far to go,” Marcus said, choosing to treat Tomás’s question literally.  He smiled encouragement.  “Almost there.”

                Tomás smiled back.  His mood had improved ever since they’d made the decision to make a stop in Chicago, to see Olivia and Luis.  

                Unable to help himself, Marcus reached over and pushed a curl out of Tomás’s eyes.  That morning, he had helped Tomás shave off the stubbly beard he’d cultivated over the past year.  If Tomás was hoping to convince Olivia and Luis that he hadn’t changed, though, it was a bit pointless.  His hair had grown a lot longer and was curling, thick and wild, about his face.  Marcus found it delightful, but the rest of the changes were not so delightful.  Every vision seemed to add a few more grey hairs while tearing away another layer of self-protection.  Tomás’s skin was papery and translucent, freckles standing out vividly against the pallor.  His eyes were large and feverish in his thin face.  He’d lost at least thirty pounds over the past year.  There was the faded remnant of a two-week old bruise on his cheek from his last vision, when he’d fallen against the sharp edge of a table before Marcus could get to him.  Now without the beard, he seemed, impossibly, both younger and older at the same time. 

                “You might as well try to get a bit more sleep,” Marcus suggested. 

                Tomás shook his head.  “Can’t.  I’m too nervous.”

                “Why on earth should you be nervous?”

                “Not sure.”

                “If anyone should be nervous, it’s me.  Olivia’s gonna have my head when she catches sight of you.”

                “You’re not responsible for my health.”

                _If not me, then who?_

                Quite aside from the fact that he _was_ responsible for Tomás, implicitly if not explicitly, he and Tomás had begun taking care of each other almost from the moment they’d met.  Tomás had heard about Marcus’s worst sins and witnessed his worst failures without judgement.  Marcus had watched over Tomás’s sleep.  They’d had almost no secrets from each other, and Marcus had thought for a long time that it was because they were both priests and accustomed to confession.  It took him a while to realize that there was something about his relationship with Tomás that he might actually have tried to run away from.

 

 

 

 

 

                He’d managed to get a job without a work history or social security number, for a restoration company.  After a fire or flood or some other arbitrary demonstration of God’s grace, they would go in to people’s homes—and occasionally, after tragic deaths—to clean up the mess.  It was pure manual labour, and there was a poetic irony to it that suited Marcus.  It was also the only kind of work a former priest and exorcist could have been qualified for.  He had no real useful skills beyond shouting scripture from memory.  At the end of each day, Marcus was so physically exhausted that he slept better than he ever had in his life.  He didn’t have to think about the gaping absence of God in his mind and soul, or the lack of Tomás in his life. 

                Since he had remained in the Seattle area, there came a night when he told himself he was being a coward, and he finally called Peter.  They met for a drink in a bar that Peter suggested.  They drank and talked about nothing in particular, avoiding the very painful subject of Andy Kim, until finally Peter, with his gift for directness, decided it was time to cut through the bullshit.

                “Where is your partner, Marcus?”

                “Tomás.”

                “Is that his name?”

                Peter had never met Tomás, Marcus recalled.  In fact, Peter probably had little more than guesses as to the nature of the “work” that Marcus and Tomás had been doing.

                “Yes.”  Then, for some reason he couldn’t fathom, Marcus added, “Father Tomás Ortega.  He’s a priest.” 

                “And where is he?”

                “I’m not sure.”

                Peter took a long swallow of his India Pale Ale, digesting.  Then he asked, “Did you have a falling out?”

                “No.”  Marcus dropped his gaze, staring into his beer and amended, “Yeah, I left him.”

                “Do you want to tell me about it?” Peter asked, so gently.

                The man was a glutton for punishment who had evidently missed his own calling as an exorcist, for Marcus opened his mouth to say something, and all his demons came pouring out.  He talked about his work and about mentoring Tomás and how they had come to Nachburn Island and discovered that Andy Kim was possessed… how Tomás had risked himself and Marcus had been forced to shoot Andy.  Peter just listened, occasionally prompting him when he got stuck.  Peter kept a hand resting simply and gently on his forearm, anchoring him.

                “I thought so,” Peter said.

                “You thought what?” Marcus replied, his voice rough.  He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand.

                “I knew that Andy Kim would never have done those things they said he did.  Thank you for telling me the truth.”

                “You’re _thanking_ me?”  Marcus shook his head in disbelief.  “What kind of saint are you?”

                Peter smiled.  “No kind of saint.  Not even really religious.”

                “Even better.  You just listened to me babble about God and demons for an hour.  I told you a demon’s been haunting your beloved islands for hundreds of years.  You must be ready to cart me off to the loony bin, yeah?”

                “’There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’”

                “Say what now?” Marcus tossed back, although he knew the quote perfectly well.

                “You never studied your Shakespeare?”

                “I had a deprived childhood.”

                “It just means I’m open to the possibilities.  Remember, I saw a lot of weird shit with my own eyes.  So hearing this story helps me put a few things together and make sense of it all.”

                “You’re… something,” Marcus said.  He hated how lame he sounded.  Peter was a special man and Marcus was hedging on every word he uttered, out of a fear that he might say something that could be taken as a come-hither.

                “And, you know… listening to you just now,” Peter added. “I had something else confirmed for me.”

                “What’s that?”

                Peter took another drink of his beer.  He said, apropos of nothing in Marcus’s opinion, “Your partner means a lot to you.”

                “Of course.”  Marcus shrugged.  _I committed murder for him_.  “I love him.”

                Peter cocked his head.  “Is that a priest thing?”

                “How do you mean?”

                “You’re supposed to love everyone, aren’t you?  You practice your emotions in different ways.”

                “I don’t know.  Maybe.  I’ve met plenty of priests who wouldn’t know what love was if it fucked them up the ass.”

                Peter tossed a laugh at the ceiling.  It was a charming sound from a charming man, and Marcus joined him, despite the fact that he had been entirely serious.

                “It must make it harder for you,” Peter said as the laughter died.

                “Make what harder?”

                “Realizing when you’re _in_ love.”

                It took a split second for Marcus to decide that it was another attempt at a joke.  He chuckled, but Peter was not joining in this time.  Marcus frowned, said, “You’re not kidding.”

                “And you’re making my point for me.”

                “Tomás is a priest,” Marcus reiterated.

                “And that somehow makes it impossible for you to be in love with him.”

                “He’s half my age, and even if I did… feel _that way_ about him… he has vows.”

                “Okay, but I thought we were talking about _your_ feelings right now.”

                “Also, I think he’s straight.”

                “Ah.”

                “What the bloody hell does that mean?”

                “I’m just wondering,” Peter said with a shrug.  “Would any of that other stuff really matter if he felt the same way?”

                “I hate this conversation,” Marcus declared.  “For the record.”

                “For the record,” Peter returned, “It’s pretty clear to me that we can only be friends.”

                “But—“

                “It’s okay, Marcus.  It’s not like you’ve led me on, or lied to me.  You don’t have to say anything.”

                After that, though, the comfortable but slightly charged repartee that they’d enjoyed from their first meeting foundered.  They parted ways with promises to do it again soon, but Marcus had a strong intimation that he would never see Peter again.

                And he was right because, two nights later, God visited Marcus in his sleep. 

                It had been so long since he had heard God’s voice.  For the first time in years he knew that God wanted him, and more—he knew what God wanted _from_ him, because he saw Tomás on his knees beseeching heaven, gaze upturned.  He might have been a painted martyr except for his eyes:  they were a metallic silver, edged with crimson.  He heard Tomás crying out in agony, but not for God—for Marcus.  In the dream, Marcus tried to respond, to go to him, but he couldn’t.  Tomás fell and fell, hitting the ground with his body twisted like an untidy pile of sticks, his beautiful eyes staring at nothing.  Dead, perhaps, or something worse. 

                It terrified Marcus more than any demon he’d ever confronted.  It had to be a threat:  _Go back or else_.

                In a panic he packed his duffle. He texted Peter to say that he was going to find Tomás, and that he was sorry.  He did not bother to text his supervisor.  Once he got to the bus station, though, he realized he had no idea where he was going.

                Despite the fact that it was going on four months since they’d spoken, Mouse answered the phone as though he’d just gone down the street to pick up some milk and crisps.  “Marcus.”

                He heard a fuzz of crowd noise in the background, the ear-assaulting twang of country music. He blurted, “Mouse, tell me he’s okay.”

                “Define okay.”

                He stammered some noises of self-defence.

                Mouse said, “He’s alive and kicking.  Not great, but well enough, for the moment.  Does that satisfy you?”

                “Where are you?”

                “Why do you want to know?”

                Marcus was so very _done_ with the fencing.  He growled, “Because I’m coming to meet you.”

                He didn’t know what he expected—  

_Too little, too late._

_Fuck right off, we don’t need you!_

_You think you can just ditch him and then come back when it suits you?_

                —so he was surprised and grateful when she just sighed, “Thank God.”  She didn’t know how accurate a statement that was, he thought.  “How far—?” she began, then restarted.  “Where are you?”

                “Seattle.”

                “We’re in Terre Haute, Indiana.  The Starlight Motor Lodge.” 

                “It’ll take a few days, then.  You’ll stay put, yeah?”

                “We will.  He’ll be—”   Something seemed to catch in Mouse’s voice.  “He’ll be relieved.”

                “I take it he’s not with you right now.”

                “I’m out having a drink.”  He heard ice cubes clinking in the background. “Marcus… I’m not good at this.”

                “Not good at what?”

                “Being… soft.”  Mouse choked out the words.  “Taking— _care_ of another person.  I can’t do that.  I _can’t_ , Marcus.”

                “Hey,” he mouthed. “Hey.”

                “Just get here.”

                It took three days, a few different buses, a couple of text exchanges with Mouse, but he got there.  December in Indiana was raw, damp and generally unpleasant—or at least it seemed so to Marcus.  The wind sliced effortlessly through his leather jacket, crawled in at his collar, and taunted him with the realization of how he had been indulged by a coastal climate. 

                Finally, there was a door, and it opened, and Tomás flung himself at Marcus, burying his face against Marcus’s neck.  Arms wound tight around his shoulders and desperate fingers pressed into his flesh.  “You came back,” Tomás whispered, breath hot in his neck.  “Marcus, you came back.”

                “That I did.”  Marcus didn’t risk any words beyond that.

                They stood that way for a time.  It might have been seconds, or it might have been an age.  He’d imagined there would be so many words.  Recriminations, explanations, arguments, defenses.  Instead there was only this raw need and straight-up emotion. 

                _I missed you_ , said Tomás’s body and hands.  _I needed you.  I still need you._

                _I’m here,_ Marcus replied silently. _I’m not leaving._

                At last, Marcus stepped back and took a look. 

                When they’d first met, Tomás had walked into his room at St. Aquinas and confronted him, a complete stranger, with the possibility of God having brought them together.  He’d been glowing and brave and crisply groomed.  Compared to him, Marcus had felt like something turned up from under a rock.  Tomás had met Marcus’s hostility with confession and even tossed his own words back at him, refusing to let Marcus ignore the import of his dream. 

                Now, he couldn’t meet Marcus’s eyes for more than a few seconds.  His gaze crumbled and he stumbled to the nearest bed, slumping onto it.

                Mouse, who had yet to be granted even a nod of greeting from Marcus, was suddenly standing next to him.  She touched his arm briefly, making momentary eye contact, turned, and walked out.  Passing the baton.  He waited until the door had closed behind her.

                “Tell me,” he said, and took his place beside Tomás on the bed.

                “Oh, Marcus—you were right, I should have listened to you—“

                “That goes without saying, luv, but maybe you should be more specific.”

                Tomás lifted wet lashes and laughed a little, then broke down.  Marcus wrapped an arm around him and hugged him, letting him cry, letting him rant. 

                “… wanted it to be me chosen by God, wanted him to want me just this once… and now He does, but He’s in me all the time, He won’t leave me alone.  I can’t do this, it hurts, it hurts so much… God, I’m sorry, I hate hearing myself sounding like this, I don’t want to _be_ like this…”

                “Shh, shh.”  Marcus shifted his weight, cupping Tomás’s face with his two hands.  “All right, it can’t be all that bad now I’m here, yeah?” He let his grip adjust itself so he was holding Tomás’s shoulders, keeping him steady.

                “Sor-ry,” Tomás hiccoughed.  He sniffed.  “I’ve been, uh… hold-holding this in for Mouse’s sake.  She doesn’t like it when I’m… emotional.”

                “Don’t be sorry.  You’ve seen me break down plenty of times.”

                “I’m just win-wing-ing though.”

                “Winging?”

                “Complaining.”

                “Oh, you mean _whinge-_ ing.”  Marcus chuckled and thumbed away a tear from beneath one of Tomás’s eyes.  “Do keep trying out the Brit-speak, luv, it’s adorable.”

                Tomás _blushed_.  Marcus filed that piece of information away for later, for when he had time to process it.

                “Thing is,” Marcus said.  “I wasn’t right.  God _did_ choose you, and he chose me to be with you on this journey.  Apparently I was in need of a good, solid kick in the pants.  Just like when you dreamed about me, I dreamed about you, and now here I am.”

                Tomás just nodded, not asking for details.  Perhaps he was far too accustomed to the notion that his destiny was in someone else’s hands.

                “The real problem I’m having right now,” Marcus went on, “is that you look like hammered shite.”

                This triggered a fresh outflow of tears.  “I… I am doing God’s work, I should not complain…”

                 “Tomás, my dear masochist, what would you say to one of your parishioners if they came to you in the same state you’re in right now?  Would you tell them—oh, yeah, definitely, you should just go home and suffer for God and not say a word to anyone?”

                Tomás blinked at him.  “No,” he said.  “I would tell them that they’re made in God’s image and as such they have a duty to care for themselves.”

                “There you go.  And are you exempt from that duty for some reason?”

                Tomás shook his head.  “No,” he said, wonderingly.  Some of the weight seemed to lift from his shoulders, right in front of Marcus.  “I haven’t slept for two days,” he admitted.  “I’m not thinking clearly.”

                “Then it’s bedtime for bonzo.”

                “Say again?”

                “Bedtime for… Erm, why haven’t you slept?”

                “I was waiting for you.”

                The statement, so simply and honestly uttered, made Marcus’s stomach ache in the best possible way.  He brushed his thumb across Tomás’s cheekbone one more time.  “And I’ve arrived and I’m knackered too, so it’s time to get some sleep.”

                They each got ready for bed, standing beside each other in the bathroom brushing their teeth, grinning at each other like a couple of boys having a sleepover.  They crawled into one of the queen-sized beds and laid facing each other. 

                “Did God really send you a dream?” Tomás breathed. 

                Marcus didn’t want to tell Tomás about the dream lest it add to his burden, or frighten him.  He decided to tell another truth.  “I think so, but you know, it was time to come back anyway.  I couldn’t bear the thought of you being apart from me.”

                Tomás uttered a tiny laugh.  “That sounds about right.”

                “Maybe Mouse doesn’t have a nurturing bone in her body but I’m here now and I’m going to be keeping an eye on you.  I’m going to mother-hen you until you can’t stand it.  You’ll beg me to stop.”

                “Don’t be mad at Mouse.”

                “I’m not.”

                “She’s a good person, she—“

                “I know.”

                “—just doesn’t know what to do with me.  It’s been hard for her.”

                “I _know_ , Tomás.” 

                Tomás twisted around to lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling.  “Marcus?”

                “Yeah.”

                “I’m still scared to sleep.”

                “Why?”

                “I keep seeing things.  Terrible things.”

                “Do you want to tell me about them?”

                “No.”

                “Why not?”

                “I’m afraid that if I do, that will make them real.”

                “Sure, that makes perfect sense,” Marcus teased.

                “How do you do it?  You’ve gone through so much…seen so many things… don’t they haunt you?”

                “Of course they do.  But I’m lucky, I guess.  I don’t dream about them much.  I get to use sleep as an escape.  You have a great big bully invading your dreams, so it’s different.”  Marcus sighed.  “I wish there was something I could do to run Him off.  If we were on a playground I could punch him in the nose.  If he were a bishop interfering with you, I could interfere with him.”

                “You call God a bully.”  Tomás yawned.  “I believe that’s called blasphemy.”

                “Read the Bible and tell me he isn’t one.”

                Tomás was quiet for a while.  Then he said, “I think you and I need to have one of our talks.”  There was a pleased smirk in his voice.   

                “Go to sleep, Tomás.  If God comes around, I’ll tell him to get buggered.”

                Over the next several minutes, Tomás’s breathing evened out into sleep.  For Marcus’s part, he was unwilling to close his eyes now that he had Tomas in front of them.  And he had come to a few realizations.

                He had been utterly stupid.

                He had been utterly miserable the last three months.

                He was utterly in love.

 

 

 

 

                When God sent revelation in the Bible, it tended to unfold in one mystical sentence.  Maybe two.  There would be a burning bush or a wrestling match with an angel and then it would be over.  Just a bare hint of the violence that theophany brought to the poor, blessed blighter who got to be the protagonist of that particular book and verse.  Having watched it happening to Tomás for months now, Marcus thought, resentfully, that the authors of the Bible had prettied up the stories a fair bit.  Not a lot of people would stand in line to be a prophet if they knew that it was a lot like getting repeatedly stepped on.

                This time, when God ground Tomás under his heel, it was 50 miles outside of Chicago, in a truck on a crowded highway at rush hour.

                “Mouse!” Marcus shouted, and launched himself over the seat, worming into the back.  He had to get underneath Tomás to cushion his head.

                Tomás’s eyes flipped to an unblinking, opaque white—tears beginning to flood like he was looking directly into a solar eclipse—as his body contracted and shuddered in a brutal arrhythmia, knocking him about in the close space of the back seat.  There were far too many hard surfaces for him to come into contact with, and it was always ugly to see, always made people panic and call for medical assistance.  The last time had been in a crowded restaurant and had led to a freaked out manager calling for an ambulance before Marcus could stop him.  They’d had to flee to evade what was really a perfectly humane impulse.  After what had happened to Bennett, though, they had a strict policy of avoiding hospitals. 

                Mouse quickly guided the truck, one lane at a time, over to the far right.  Stopping on the shoulder on this eight-lane expressway was strictly forbidden—but it did happen.  After a few minutes of driving in the far right lane, she steered onto a small, paved pull-off for utility vehicles.  Cars, busses and vans hurtled past them at high speed, occasionally shaking the truck with their velocity.  It was just turning dusk, and she put on the truck’s hazards for safety’s sake.

                Marcus held Tomás’s head against his body with one arm and grasped his hand with the other, as Tomás twitched and trembled.  All he could do was keep Tomás away from anything sharp or otherwise harmful, try to minimize the damage.  As usual, this phase of the prophetic assault went on for several, endless minutes. 

                Then he jerked to a stop, his body locked into a rigid and painful pose, his eyes still clouded with gnosis, and he began talking.

                If they had needed proof that Tomás wasn’t suffering from schizophrenia or some other disorder—not that either of them had any doubt of where the visions were coming from—it was in the fact that, in the throes of his divine possession, he didn’t only speak English or Spanish.  He spoke a variety of other languages, all jumbled up, some of which Marcus could identify and some of which he could only guess at.  Aramaic, Greek, Coptic, Yiddish.  Something that sounded Native American.  Something African.  Something Slavic.  It changed all the time.  They’d obtained a mini-recorder and begun recording his vocalizations—it would be inaccurate to call them discourses—and Mouse was currently talking to her contacts about finding scholars who could help them with translation. 

                In the interim, Tomás was saying enough that was recognizable that they could find cases; still, Mouse believed that there was a lot more information buried in the words.  She thought there were leads relating to the conspiracy in the Church that they hadn’t untangled.  Marcus wasn’t so sure.  He’d been reading up on prophecy, and his own theory was that a lot of what came out of Tomás’s mouth was just redundant.  To his way of thinking, God was not practised or even comfortable with human nervous systems.  Marcus could imagine Him, this being so _wholly other_ , confronted with the problem of communication using earthly meat.  No wonder the messages got garbled.  Some of it would be impossible, stuff that Tomás couldn’t have known, and some of it would be infused with material from his memories and personality.  The trick was sorting it all out.

                Especially since Tomás didn’t remember any of it.

                Mouse got out the recorder and switched it on, then found her notebook.  She scribbled down whatever she could of God’s word as it spilled from Tomás.  His lips were white and chapped, a line of drool trickling down from one corner of his mouth.  Marcus wiped it away and tried not to curse the heavens.

                “Ash…Ashes and oaks…oaken ashes… a forest of oak, burning.  She’s burning.  _Talitha cum_ , _talitha cum_!  _Fatat saghiraz_ , _aistayqiz_!  _Palenie_ , _palenie…palenie_!  You have to save her, hammer of God, harvest-hammer…hammer…war god… _Rabbouni, she’s burning!_ ”

                “I think he means you,” Mouse murmured.

                So, that was new.  

                “ _Ella est_ _á quemando_ , _Rabbouni, hammer of yahweh...marantha_ … _ella esta quemando_!”

                “Okay, okay,” Marcus soothed.  He smoothed Tomás’s hair, stroked his cheek, his hair again.  “I hear you.  It’s okay, I hear you.”

                “Ashes and oaks, forest of oak…forest… _roble…_ the people _…irenwe-wa…. roble irenwe-wa…waroble… waroble…irenwe-wa… ghabatan min albulut…_ forest of oak of ashes of oak…forest of ash…forestofashofoakofashforestofoakforestofoakforestofoak…!”

                Marcus was long past debate over the source of Tomás’s revelations—but he still had a hard time calling them a gift.  In yet another example of God’s munificence, when He’d added full-on prophecy to Tomás’s repertoire, He hadn’t bothered to edit the set list, leaving all the other demonstrations of His divine favour intact… so Tomás still had dreams filled with obscure signposts, reminders, warnings, symbols and generally unpleasant imagery.  When entering a demon-haunted space, Tomás still saw things that alarmed and pained him, still caught glimpses of the demon’s presence that were quite useful at times and at other times simply distracting. 

                On  top of all this, it was now almost impossible for him not to get pulled into the “inner scape”, that realm of spiritual consciousness where the minds of the demon, the possessed and Tomas himself could meet.  This could have sidelined him as an exorcist if it weren’t that he was able to exert a certain power there.  Between the three of them, they could remove a demon within a few days… and once, more recently, in less than an hour.  They were a formidable team, but the cost to Tomás was extreme.

                Suggesting the visit had been a no brainer.  It had not escaped Marcus that Tomás was depressed, even if his mood had been somewhat improved of late.  He liked to think that he’d had something to do with that, but having lived through a major depression himself, and not that long ago, Marcus knew how debilitating it could be.  He knew that overcoming depression wasn’t just a matter of thinking positive thoughts.  He wished they could take a break, get Tomás some good drugs at the very least, but he had no idea how to broach the subject.  For himself, he’d found the medication helpful.  Therapy would have been nice too, but as far as Marcus knew, there were no therapists who specialized in prophetic trauma. 

                So he would settle for time with the family.  Something to remind Tomás that he wasn’t just a pawn in some eternal war between God and his estranged angels. 

                Marcus hugged Tomás’s head closer and rocked him, completely helpless to do anything else, until at last Tomas went limp and silent.  

                “Tomás,” Marcus coaxed.  Very gently, he patted Tomás’s cheek to get his attention.  “Hey there, luv.  Don’t go to sleep yet.”

                “Whah?”  Tomás dragged his eyes open.  He gazed dizzily up at Marcus.  “’m I laying down?”

                “Uh, yeah.  You want some water?”

                Tomás closed his eyes.  “Mmm.”

                “Is that a yes?”

                “ _Si_ , yes.”

                Marcus grabbed one of the bottles of water from the case of them that they kept in the back seat, precisely for such moments.  Uncapping it, he held it up to Tomás’s lips.  Some of it spilled but most of it ended up in his mouth.   

                “Tomás, what you want to do?  Remember, we’re supposed to—“

                “See Olivia and Luis.”

                “That’s right.”

                “Go see them now.”

                “Okay.” Marcus raised his volume for Mouse.  “You heard the man.”

                “Great,” Mouse sighed.  She tossed her equipment into the seat beside her and started the truck’s engine, turning off the hazard lights.  “We’ll just show up at her door with her unconscious brother.  She’ll love that.”

                “Maybe take the long route there,” Marcus suggested.  “Give him a little time to recover.” 

                Recovery generally involved nothing much more than extended periods of sleep, a lot of acetaminophen and ibuprofen, and as much water as Marcus could get into him.  God had been merciful this time.  Tomás could have wet himself when he was seizing, which did happen sometimes, and that would have made this whole scenario more complicated.  He would not have wanted his sister to see him like that.  And because it had happened now, it was less likely to happen while they were visiting with Olivia and Luis. 

                Mouse took an exit and began a meandering tour of one of the neighbourhoods of Chicago.  Her phone’s mapping service began a frantic round of “Recalculating… Recalculating…” until Mouse grabbed it and silenced it with a growl.  Marcus found one of the pillows bunched up underneath them and used it to make Tomás’s head a softer resting place on his lap.  It had to be an improvement over his bony knees.  He smoothed a hand down Tomás’s arm, then took his hand and held it. 

                He’d always been a tactile person; touching, holding, soothing this person whom he loved was no hardship.  As much comfort as Marcus wanted to dish out, Tomás seemed eager to take.  It was common for them to sleep twined together, or for Tomás to lay his head on Marcus’s shoulder if they were sitting side by side.  Sometimes Marcus found that he wanted to kiss Tomás, and while it was not exactly chaste on his part, there hadn’t been any urgency about it.  It happened, as naturally as a caress of the cheek.  Marcus knew it was not the time to take it any further.  Tomás seemed to have all the sexual agency of a child lately, and Marcus had more than enough to fret about without bringing sex into the mix.   

                “God won’t let him die,” Mouse said.

                Startled, Marcus realized that he was crying.  He dashed the tears away angrily and retorted, “No, that would make him a whole lot less useful, wouldn’t it?”

                Mouse had no comment.

                “When does it stop, Mouse?  When does God let him down from this cross?”

                “He uses us all the way He wants, Marcus.  You used to understand that.”

                Marcus tasted something he didn’t like.  Something sour and bitter.  “What’s your point?” he spat.

                “All I’m saying is, this is old school, Book of Job, why does God let good people suffer sort of stuff.  You never had any time for it before, so why let it get to you now?  Life sucks, God is not great, yadda, yadda.  Get over it and get down to business.”

                Marcus stared at the back of her head.  “Christ, Mouse.  Sometimes I think you really don’t like me much.”

                “I like you fine.”

                “A ringing endorsement.”

                “You’re just a bit too close to the situation to see clearly.”

                “Excuse me,” Marcus retorted, a bit huffily.  “I think you’ll find that the majority of atheists and university freshmen are on my side.”

                It had been so much easier for him when he’d believed that the dreams and visions were all demon manipulation.  If they’d been demonic, he could have done something about them.  He had a procedure for casting out demons but nothing at hand for casting out God. 

 

 


	2. Tomás

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of the few things Tomás remembered about the time before he went to Mexico was how Papá liked to hum that old Doris Day song Que Sera, Sera. He and Olivia would join in sometimes, and they would all laugh together over how the very white lady had sounded when she tried to speak Spanish. It was one of the few good memories they had of Papá. Tomás had been thinking about that song a lot lately. Somewhat to his shame, he found that humming or chanting it to himself could calm him better than any prayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. All comments and kudos are extremely welcome... like Marcus welcoming a snog with his Tomás!

 

                As with so many things lately, he had to tell himself _this is what it will be_ , _this is what you will have_.  Because it was not how he wanted to be showing up at Olivia’s door, every bit of him aching and weak, reeking with recent sweat—

_Dios,_ how he had missed them and longed to be with them.  When Marcus proposed the visit it had been like a gift, and now they were arriving here in the middle of the night and he would be barely able to stay awake long enough to greet her and Luis.  He supposed he should be grateful that it happened before and not _during_ the visit.

                To start, there would be a strangely physical sensation like something very heavy was pressing on the top of his head, crushing him into the earth, accompanied by a smell of burning.  In the next instant, he would be unable to utter a word, although he felt like he still should be able to.  More than once he’d begun to tell Marcus, _it’s happening_ , _Marcus, it’s happening_ , and found that he couldn’t.  And then all his senses rioted in the most exquisitely terrifying way.  He could smell sunlight and taste colours.  He could see sounds floating in the air like galaxies of dust.  He could never hold onto those moments of what felt like perfect enlightenment, because by then his body would be trying to pretzel itself into random shapes.

                Then would come the part he would never be able to tell anyone.  There was a Feeling, he could give it no other name.  It would descend and take hold.  It was, strangely, everything at once, hot and cold, painful and pleasurable.  For an extended second that was an entire eternity, he would be studying the Feeling, wondering at it.  Everything mattered.  Nothing mattered.  Sometimes he thought maybe it was God, but sometimes, too, he wondered if it was the Lady Holy Death, _Santa Muerte_ reaching out to him.

                And then he would be waking up, utterly wrung out, soaked in his own juices.  As terrible as he would feel in his body, there was a part of him that always exulted, just a little.  It was like he had given birth to something much larger than himself and somehow survived it, and Marcus would be there waiting on the other side, and he would do everything in his power to make it okay.

                “Olivia,” Marcus was saying as they were welcomed at the door.  He gave her a brief and awkward hug, momentarily barring the way into the apartment.  The entranceway was cramped, barely big enough for one person, let alone five.

                Marcus had met Olivia before Tomás left town with him, just over a year ago.  They had crashed in her apartment for a couple of nights after Tomás vacated his own place.  They’d gotten along fine, but _things_ had transpired since then.  Such as Marcus taking Tomas away and not bringing him back for a year.  The fact that Tomás had chosen of his own free will to go with Marcus was neither here nor there.  Tomás was her little brother and always would be.

                “I’m so sorry for how late we are,” Marcus added.  “Tomás, er… he took sick.”

                The moment that Olivia heard those words, she was ushering them all inside while embodying the role of big-sister-and-hostess:   _Oh, Tomás is sick!  Surely Tomás should be lying down, and it is terrible and you all look exhausted!  Your name is… did you say Mouse?  So nice to meet you, Luis, go make up the sofa bed for Tio, hurry, now_ — 

                “Wait,” Tomás rasped.  “Wait.” 

                He’d spoken a little louder than he meant to, cutting into the flow of welcomes and instructions; now everyone was looking at him. But he hadn’t even gotten a chance to embrace his family, and he needed that.

                “Luis, come here,” he begged.  “I promise I’m not contagious.  And you, Livvy.” Finally, he was holding them, and it was the best thing that had happened to him in a long time, except for maybe when Marcus had returned.

 

 

 

 

                The loss of Marcus had been like a severed limb; it was a gaping nothing that was constantly present. 

                Mouse was not an unpleasant companion, but she always maintained her emotional distance.  She was like a general in a war—from her point of view, it _was_ a war—and he was her not-so-secret weapon.  As such, he should be maintained in good order, to be sure, but he didn’t expect and she didn’t provide more than that.  Intuitively he understood that this was the version of her that had survived her possession some years ago.  Limited in some ways, expansive in others.  He became accustomed to going into the inner scape every time they confronted a demon, and he was getting better at it, with Mouse’s encouragement.  Not only that, but Mouse pressed him for details when he saw strange or uncomfortable or unpleasant things, or when he woke with a scream.  She never once dismissed what he had to say or tried to pretend it was anything other than what it was.

                With Mouse, he was encouraged to embrace his gift, but he was very much alone with it.

                They came upon a demon nestled inside a middle-aged, Anglican minister, a woman whom they had stolen away from her home and chained up in the basement of her own church to perform the exorcism. 

                “Poor, poor little Tomás,” the demon sang through her crusted, broken mouth.  Every time she spoke, the odor of her rotting soul was a sulfurous blast in the face.  “Another daddy left you, huh?”

                Memory flickered for Tomás:  Standing in the airport in Mexico City, looking for Papá and seeing only a strange old woman waving to him; superimposed with that image, standing outside the motel in Seattle, watching Marcus walk away from him, hat firmly set around his ears, gait steady and resolved.

                “Ooh,” she droned.  “I can just _smell_ the loneliness on you, scrumptious.  Papi went away, huh?  Maybe if you’d been willing to suck his cock he might have stayed.  That body might as well be good for something besides eating and sleeping and shitting, right?”

                Mouse doused her with a lavish quantity of holy water and she howled.  Laughed.

                “He’s dying right in front of you, house mouse.  What are you going to do about it?”

                The jibe hit its mark.  Mouse cast a slightly discomfited glance at Tomás.

                “Look at the pair of you.  Fruit rotting on the vine, like a couple of old maids.”

                “God, will you ever shut up,” Mouse said, and gave Tomás the signal, the one that meant it was time for him to Do His Thing. 

                They got the demon out of the woman within six hours, an impressive accomplishment at the time.  After she was dropped off at the nearest hospital, Tomás put on his ratty sweats and went for a run down the secondary highway that stretched out behind their motel, cutting a lumpy grey line through an infinite field of yellow-green corn.  It was late September but still very hot in southern Iowa.  He told himself he was enjoying the heat and the sunshine, until the melancholy that had been pressing down on him got so crushing, he lurched to a sweaty stop in the middle of the road, and he wept.

                He cried childish, self-pitying tears because the demon was right.  He’d been left too many times, and he had thought he was past feeling sorry for himself about it.  But it was his fault Marcus was gone.  He should have done whatever, said whatever, to keep Marcus from leaving. 

                There had been a time, not long ago when he still felt like a sexual entity, when he’d noticed how Marcus looked at him, and he’d noticed in turn that Marcus was tall and lithe and beautifully proportioned.  The lines of his shoulders were mesmerizing.  When he would touch Tomás’s face or grip his arms, Tomás could feel the power in him.  And it was a power that was not only physical; Marcus had a way about him, sometimes, that made every gesture into a provocation.  Sometimes Marcus flirted with people, and Tomás had witnessed him vanishing for a couple of hours here and there, and coming back in what could only be called a post-coital mood.  Based on comments Marcus had made here and there, Tomás felt certain that Marcus was far from a virgin.  Marcus carried himself like a person who knew who he was and wasn’t shy about it. 

                Not so long ago, Tomás had daydreamed about Marcus teaching him _everything_. 

                Scrubbing at the tears so hard that the salt burned his cheeks, he told himself to stop thinking this nonsense.  He had what he had now.  _Que sera, sera._   He was chosen by God.  That should be enough for him, shouldn’t it?  He shouldn’t be standing here on a lonely road, crying over what he couldn’t have.  _This is what you will have_ , he told himself. _This is all, and so by definition it is enough_.

                One of the few things Tomás remembered about the time before he went to Mexico was how Papá liked to hum that old Doris Day song _Que Sera, Sera._   He and Olivia would join in sometimes, and they would all laugh together over how the very white lady had sounded when she tried to speak Spanish.  It was one of the few good memories they had of Papá.  Tomás had been thinking about that song a lot lately.  Somewhat to his shame, he found that humming or chanting it to himself could calm him better than any prayer.

_Que sera, sera… whatever will be, will be_ … _the future’s not ours to see… que sera, sera…what will be, will be_.

                When the last of the tears had dried to a sticky film on his cheeks, he turned to head back to the motel, and it was then that the very first of his seizures came upon him.  He would never know if he had prophesied anything or not.  A local farmer had found him lying on the road and brought him, obviously someone from out of town, back to the nearby motel.  Maybe the farmer had been sent by God along with the seizure.  Or maybe he’d just known that any strangers who appeared on that highway must necessarily belong to the motel.

                That first time was just the warm up.  He was seized again the next morning, delivering his first true vision—as in the Acts of the Apostles, where _all of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other tongues, as the Spirit enabled them_ —and Mouse, always resourceful, used the mess of words to figure out where they needed to go next.  Tomás spent the entire ride curled up in the passenger seat of the old truck that had once transported himself and Marcus back and forth across America, clutching an ice pack to his head and fighting not to throw up.  Every time he tried to stand, vertigo felled him.  But he was able to assist with the exorcism when the time came.  And the next one after that, and the next.

                Tomás hadn’t meant to fail so badly at taking care of himself but, after all, Biblical prophets were sputtering candles with very short wicks.  If God wanted him to survive any longer than that, perhaps He would see to it.  In the meantime, no one seemed to care if he ate, or when he slept.  Mouse was not unkind; she tried to encourage him but she would only go a little way towards solicitude.  A deeply private and self-determined woman, she had had all of her passion, her altruism, her will and selfhood distilled and poured into a single purpose, and that purpose did not include nursing Tomás. 

                For a time, his world was the ever-deepening physical and emotional exhaustion.  He saw it happening but he couldn’t stop it.  He was too tired to be all that rational.  He started to have little breakdowns in the shower, holding one hand over his mouth to keep himself quiet, and the other hand on top of the first to keep it firmly in place. 

                If Mouse guessed, she said nothing.  Then, in November, she came back from a brief outing to a nearby bar and told him Marcus had called and would be there in a couple of days.  Tomás tripped over his own feet and nearly broke his neck trying to get into the bathroom in time to hide his almost-hysteria.

                Then Marcus was there and, slowly, Tomás began to believe that maybe God didn’t mean for him to die of being His prophet. 

                There were even days that could be called good.  They found themselves in Austin in March, which was the best time to be in Texas, before the heat became oppressive and all moisture was scoured from the air.  The nights still held a refreshing cool, and everything was green for the time being.  They had finished an exorcism, and Tomas felt about as well as he ever felt lately. 

                Marcus insisted that they go out for barbecue and live music. Tomás had already treated himself to barbacoa that morning and was not keen on more food, but he was happy to oblige Marcus nonetheless.  Since Marcus had gotten back, his days had revolved around the State of Tomás.  To Tomás, the miracle was that Marcus would seek out his company at all.

                The Green Mesquite was adequate as far as barbecue went, as per Marcus’s review.  He treated Tomás to an impressively detailed discourse on the regional barbecue customs of America.  Afterwards, they found a bar on Sixth Street.  Marcus was in his element, downing draft beer and worshipping at the feet of whatever artist was on the stage.  Tomás mostly tuned them out.  It was a rare thing to see Marcus happy, and Tomás revelled in it while nursing his club soda. 

                Until he saw Marcus making prolonged eye contact with a man at the other end of the bar.  The interloper was dressed in cowboy chic, with washed out jeans, crisp blue shirt and bolo tie.  He was roughly forty, with deeply tanned skin and startling eyes.  He seemed to be an incarnation of the Marlborough Man. 

                As Tomás watched, the two of them exchanged glances and grins.  A few minutes later, a refill arrived for Marcus—and Tomás was _not_ jealous, no, he was not.  Was it in poor taste for some stranger to be coming on to a man who was obviously in the company of another man?  Yes, it was.  How did Marlborough know they weren’t together?  He didn’t.  Marlborough was clearly a person with a weak set of sexual ethics.   

                When the smiles advanced to long leers, Tomás decided he had had enough.  He stood up.  “I’m going to use the restroom,” he declared. 

                “Sure—hey, you feelin’ okay?” drawled Marcus.

                “Fine,” Tomás replied curtly.  Let Marcus get off in a back alley if he wanted.

                Taking sanctuary in the bathroom, he washed his hands, considering himself in the mirror.  He couldn’t believe that the thin-faced, hollow-eyed creature he saw was Tomás Ortega.  He had no right to be annoyed at Marcus or Marlborough for not considering Tomás Ortega an option.  Also, Tomás Ortega was just pathetic enough to be hiding in a bathroom sulking because someone else was making a move on—

                His man.

_His_ man.  His Marcus.

                He departed the bathroom only to run into Marcus in the hallway.  “I was just coming to look for you,” Marcus said.

                “In the toilet?”

                Marcus shrugged.  “You looked a little off.”

                “I’m fine.”

                “You sure?  We can go back to the motel if you want.”

                “No,” Tomás said quickly.  “You should have fun.  Never mind me.”

                Marcus cocked his head, examining Tomás.  “Been having fun.”

                “That’s good.”

                “Gobs of fun.  Oodles, you might say.”

                “I… good.”

                Marcus shifted Tomás out of the way of a man who was headed into the bathroom, gently pressing him up against the wall.  He asked Tomás, “Problem?”

                “You should… if you… I can go back myself, if you have other plans.”

                “What?  What other plans?” 

                Tomás nodded his head in the direction of the bar.  “That guy seems really interested.”

                Marcus took a moment to process that, and it must have been a lot more revealing than Tomás had intended.  The expression that spread across his face was unquestionably the trademark _I-Am-Marcus-Keane_ smirk.  Tomás felt himself flush from the roots of his hair to his toenails under that knowing gaze.  His heart began to pound.  He became intensely aware of the several inches between their two mouths.

                “Oh,” Marcus said softly.  “I see.  Yeah, here’s the thing…”  He moved in a little closer, all but crowding Tomás against the wall.  “I’m already going home with someone else.”  He placed his hands flat on the wood panelling, on either side of Tomás’s head.  His body was a hard, hot line against Tomás.  Knees, thighs, groin… cock.  Tomás felt them each separately and all at once.

                “Marcus, are you… drunk?”

                “Maybe.  Just enough to do something impulsive.”

                Marcus crossed those few inches between their faces, taking his time so Tomás would have plenty of opportunity to evade him, and presented Tomás with a short, sweet brush of mouth on mouth.  It was something inevitable, maybe.  It was definitely something that Tomás had been wanting to try, a while back. 

                He did not move.  He stood there like a block of wood.  He remembered certain scenes in Jessica’s home as though he were watching a movie with some stranger in a priest’s collar; the man who had been like an oversexed adolescent with Jessica was no longer present in this drained, overused body. 

                Marcus moved back a few inches and smiled with that unfailing gentleness of his.  He ran the back of his hand up Tomás’s cheek and said, “Like that.”

                “I’m sorry,” Tomás blurted.

                “No apologies.  I took you by surprise.  Let’s go home and sleep, yeah?”

                He should have been ashamed, but he didn’t have the energy for it.  

               

 

 

 

                Having embraced his sister and his nephew, Tomás was tumbled into the shower for a quick wash and then sent to bed with promises of food and conversation the following day.

                Olivia’s one-bedroom apartment was a very tight fit for all of them but Olivia had been raised to believe in the importance of hospitality.  Tomás had warned Marcus and Mouse ahead of time so they knew what to expect and how they were meant to respond.  So Tomás and Marcus were sharing the sofa bed in the living room, and it had been agreed (insisted) that Mouse would take Luis’s bed, while Luis would sleep on an air mattress in his mother’s room.

                They almost always shared a bed now, he and Marcus.  Although it didn’t stop the dreams, Tomás did take great comfort in having Marcus there, and sometimes, just sometimes, the dreams would be replaced by sensations of Marcus holding Tomás, touching him.  Even kissing him, although that was happening only occasionally and tentatively, and was mostly devoid of passion on his part.  The kissing was pleasant enough, but it filled Tomás with guilt as it was merely another demonstration of his extreme selfishness.  He couldn’t give anything to Marcus, but he wouldn’t let Marcus go either.

                This night he dreamed about his family having their eyes plucked out and eaten by ravens with unnaturally long beaks and wet, gleaming feathers.  He’d been dreaming about birds a lot lately, but this was the first time that Olivia and Luis had gotten mixed up in it.  Oh, he frequently dreamed about terrible things happening to people he loved, but he’d come to the conclusion, after panicking the first few times, that it was just his brain processing the remains of his visions.  When he had a dream that he was meant to pay attention to, it felt different.  

                The birds were meaningful somehow, though… that was one thing he was meant to know.

                When he opened his eyes, bright light streamed in through a crack between the two living room curtains.  Marcus was absent from the sofa bed; probably around and drinking coffee.  Tomás heard voices and plates clinking in the kitchen, and he wanted to bury himself under the blankets, try to build a wall to keep out all sensory input.  He had been intending to wake up relatively restored but as usual God had other plans.  He was used to a constant, low-grade headache that he could ignore, most days.  Today, there was a deep pulse of pain over his right eye. 

                Something new, then.  He made a quick resolution to ignore it as best he could.  He was a guest in his sister’s home, and she was probably not happy with him to begin with.

                He made himself rise and went into the kitchen.  It was only Olivia there.  A tiny, little quake happened inside Tomás, a tremor of _where is Marcus?_   It was beginning to be embarrassing how much he dreaded the lack of Marcus. 

                “It’s about time,” Olivia said.  She had her head buried in a pot on the stove that she was stirring.  It smelled like menudo, a funk that normally would have filled Tomás with joy.  Right now, it filled him with a fear that he would have to eat.

                Tomás glanced at the clock on the wall and it was past noon.  “Oh,” he said.  “ _Mi hermana, perd_ _óname_.  You should have woken me up.”

                “You needed it.” 

                Olivia turned from the pot and gave him the critical examination he’d been dreading.

                Luis bounced into the kitchen.  “Finally, you’re awake!”

                Tomás winced at the volume, tried to turn it into a smile.

                “Uncle Tomás, can we go to the park and play football?”

                Tomás felt genuine panic, and turned his eyes to plead with his sister because he was incapable of saying no to Luis in this moment.  He was also incapable of playing football.  If he tried, he’d probably fall on his face—and, he observed, there seemed to be a blob of light obscuring his sight, just under that pain pulse.  The whole right side of his face was acting strangely.

                “Luis, your uncle just got up and hasn’t even had breakfast yet,” Olivia intervened crisply.  “And he’s sick, remember?  Now go make your bed like I asked you to two hours ago.”

                “But Mamá—“

                “Maybe later you can show Tio Tomás your XBox games.  But only if you do what I say first.”

                Luis’s face exploded with the light of a supernova.  “Okay!” he said and shot from the room.  Tomás felt tired just watching him.

                Olivia pointed at a chair.  “Sit,” she ordered.  “Do you want coffee?”

                As much as the idea appealed to his taste buds, Tomás knew that the acid wouldn’t sit well.  “No, thanks.  Where are Marcus and Mouse?”

                Olivia turned, put her back to the sink.  She folded her arms and continued to examine Tomás as she spoke.  “Hmm, well, they had some kind of very serious conversation this morning.  I heard them saying your name a lot, and then they were talking about a forest of oak and what it meant, and Luis said it has to be Oak Forest.  So they have gone to Oak Forest to look for a possessed girl, I believe.”

                From yesterday’s vision.  As usual, Tomás remembered nothing of what he had said.  Or rather, what God had said through him.

                Olivia said, “You should eat something.”  She firmed her mouth, a clear sign she was holding on to something, then burst out, “Are you trying out a new career as a supermodel, Tomás?  You look like the Bone Lady.  What is going on with you?”

                Tomás rubbed at the spot above his eye.  Was the bright patch getting bigger?  “Livvy, _hermana_ , please—“

                It was the eruption of Mount Olivia now.  

                “No, I will not please, I do not please!  You go away for a year, you barely call, you have mysterious church people chasing you—and oh, yes, there are demons now, so I have to fit that in my world, and you and Saint Marcus are chasing them around the country, and he promises me you’ll be safe, except he brings you back looking like this!”

                The last of these words had risen to a sufficient pitch and volume that Tomás had to hold his head in his hands, trying to make his palms into a physical barrier against the sound-pain.  Whatever this was in his skull, it was well beyond the usual. 

                “Mamá?”

                They both turned and saw Luis in the doorway between the kitchen and living room.  He was wearing the round-eyed stare of a child who had just discovered that the adults in his life were not getting along.

                “It’s okay, _miho_ ,” Olivia said.  “I am just yelling at your uncle because I’m his sister and I love him.”

                “Oh.  Like you yell at me sometimes.”

                “ _Si_.  Just like that.”

                “Maybe don’t yell at him so much though, ‘cuz he just got here, and I don’t want him to leave.”

                Olivia produced a teary laugh.  “All right.  Can you do me a favour, though, and let me talk privately with Uncle Tomás?  I promise I won’t yell anymore.”

                “Okay, Mamá.”  Luis dashed over and hugged Tomás hard enough to force a surprised gulp out of him, then rushed out of the kitchen. 

                “He has such a good heart,” Tomás said.

                “Tomás, what are you going to eat?  Because you are eating something.”

                “Just toast, please.”

                “Tomásito —"

                Olivia had been brought up in the same school of thought as their mother, and their mother’s mother, Tomás reminded himself.  Food was love.  “I’ll try to eat more later, I promise.  What are you making?”

                “Menudo.”

                She was waiting for his pleased response, so he cracked a smile.  “What about you?” he asked.  Anything to get away from the subject of food.  “How is your job?”  

                Olivia was putting two slices of bread in the toaster.  “They made me permanent.”

                “That’s great news!”

                “Yes.  It is very boring though.”  She turned back towards Tomás; she shrugged.  “You know what Papá always said.  _Que sera, sera_.”

                “I think that was Doris Day,” he replied, as he was meant to.  They shared the smile of siblings remembering their childhood together, but it faded quickly. 

                “Seriously,” she said.  “I want to know what’s going on.”

                He tried to think of what he could tell her that would not worry her, and realized that would involve lying.  So he confessed, “I’ve been… having seizures.”

                Olivia looked like something had just walked over her grave.

                “It’s fine,” he said, quickly.  “I mean, no, it’s not fine, but you don’t need to worry.”

                “What does the doctor say?” she asked, very subdued.  He knew not to be lulled by that quietness.  Mount Olivia was always ready to go off.

                “There is no doctor.”

                “What?”

                “Look, it’s…”  He rubbed his forehead, trying to think.  “There was an incident several months ago.  A woman hit me with a hammer.”  He mimed a blow to the head.

                Olivia’s eyes widened, then narrowed.

                “It’s okay, I was fine.  A minor concussion, and they said that sometimes with a head injury you have seizures.”  Clearly he was a guy who’d been spending too much time learning from demons how to use the truth to lie.  It was just really hard to tell one’s sister _I’m a prophet of the Lord and seizures are one of the side effects. No big deal_.  Olivia would think him delusional.  She was Catholic, yes, but she was also a modern person, much like he’d been before the Rance situation, and she’d always been more of a skeptic than he.  He finished off, “It’s—it’s part of the healing process.”

                The toast popped up, startling him.  When Olivia presented him with the two slices, he knew that it was a challenge he was expected to meet.  She was watching him with a flat expression, daring him to say the words _I’m okay_ one more time.  The toast slices were saturated with butter and, at the smell, he nearly heaved.  He picked up one piece and forced his teeth into it. 

                The moment the fatty flavour hit the back of his throat, it was over.  He brought up not much of anything except for stomach juices.  The violence of the movement, though, transformed the pulse above his eye into a stab, and he gasped.

                “ _Dios mio_ , Tomás,” Olivia breathed.  She was wiping off his chin with a dishcloth, as though he were an infant who had just burped up his dinner.  “I’m taking you to a doctor.”

                “No,” he protested.  “No, Olivia.”

                “This is serious, Tomás!  You could be sick like Mamá—”

                “I don’t have cancer, Livvy, I promise you.  There’s nothing they can do for me—and I don’t have insurance.”

                “The Church—“

                “The Church is not looking after me anymore.  There is no one to pay the bills.”

                “Then how are you even living?! Tomás —“

                “Livvy, I’m begging you—“

                He couldn’t go on, on account of the fact that he was suddenly entirely blind in the one eye, and that same side of his head was being consumed by the worst pain he had ever known.  He moaned out loud, unable to do anything else.

                “Tomás?” Olivia begged.  “Tomasito?”

                “ _Santa Maria Madre de dios_ …” he groaned.  He bent himself in half, putting his hands over his face in a pathetic effort to shut everything out.

                “What is it?  Tomás, talk to me!”

                “Help me… lie down.  Please.”

                With Olivia at his arm, he managed to totter to the sofa bed.  The sun stabbed him through the curtains and he lamented its brightness out loud.  Olivia pulled the curtains together tightly and said, close to tears by the sound of it, “I don’t know what to do.” 

                “Call… Marcus.”  It wasn’t that he thought there was anything Marcus could do; it was just that he wanted Marcus.  

                “Why?  What’s happening?”

                “I don’t know….my head.”

                “I think we need to go to Emergency.”

                “No.”

                “You could be having a stroke!”

                “I…” he started and gasped as pain stole his ability to speak. 

                “We’re going.  We’re going _now_ , Tomás.”

 

 

 

 

               

                If he hadn’t been in so much agony, and if it wouldn’t have required him to prise himself out of the knot he’d formed on the front seat, Tomás might have tried to leap from Olivia’s car.  He knew this was going to end badly even as he allowed himself to be dragged from sofa bed to passenger seat to plastic emergency room chair.  His sole compensation was the slight possibility that medical science would have an answer to this—but how could it, when it was all God’s will?  God was the source; from Him were the seizures, the visions, the dreams and omens and feelings.  This must be Him too. 

                And this must be punishment for something.  Punishment for his bad attitude, for making such a mess of himself.  Tomás had been trying to bear it all without complaint, he truly had, it was just that Marcus was always there, asking him how he felt, coaxing him to say what he needed.  He never should have said anything, this was what he had, _this was his life and it was enough_ , _que sera what will be que sera will be will be_ —

                “Fill out these forms, please.”

                He did not respond; nor did he scream at the voice to lower the volume.

                “I’ll do it,” Olivia volunteered.

                Tomás made a supreme effort and raised his head a little.  He saw Luis, looking terrified.  Tomás fought a smile onto his face, hoping it didn’t look too ghoulish.  “It’s okay,” he whispered.   “I’m okay.”

                “You’re not, _Tio_ , I can tell.”

                Tomás extended a hand, offering it to his nephew.  Luis squeezed it, hard. 

                Because of the headache Tomás was triaged as relatively high risk, a possible stroke in progress.  That was one mercy, he supposed.  Despite his strong impulse to get away, there was the tiny hope that they might actually be able to help him, and it motivated him sufficiently to get from the waiting room to a small, curtained alcove inside a large room with a number of other sufferers in their various levels of purgatory.  Olivia and Luis came along, supporting him on either side.  He crumpled onto the examination table.

                “Father Tomás Ortega…”  The voice was unexpectedly young-sounding.  Way too young.  Tomás tried a look, saw a white coat and a clipboard, and his heart leapt into high gear.  “I’m Dr. O’Malley.  What seems to be the problem?”

                “My head,” Tomas muttered, his heart racing.  Every pulse of his heart sent a throb of woe through his skull.

                The young man glanced at his clipboard.  “You have a headache?”

                Tomás fixed him with a baleful glare.

                “Where is the pain?”

                “Right side.”

                O’Malley took a black cuff from the small basket affixed to the wall and wrapped it around Tomás’s arm, pumping vigorously while the cuff tightened to the point of unbearable.  Just when Tomás was on the verge of ripping his arm away, he released the pump.  He watched a red needle on a device on the wall, falling from a high to a low number. 

                “Your blood pressure is normal.  A little elevated maybe.  Your heartrate is high so that’s not surprising.”  Then O’Malley said something else while writing on his chart, something that Tomás didn’t catch. 

                “It started about a couple of hours ago,” Olivia supplied when he didn’t answer.  “At least from what I could see.”

                “Father, can you describe the pain?”

                Tomás made a noise of protest.

                “Is it more pulsing or piercing?” the young doctor prompted.

                “Yes.”

                “So… both?”

                Tomás managed a tiny nod.  If he unsealed his lips, he would vomit.        

                “If you were to give the pain a number out of ten with ten being the absolute worst pain you can imagine and one being none, where would this pain be?”

                “It’s…up here.”

                “Nine? Ten?”

                “ _Si_.”

                Tomás could smell his own sweat and considered whether it might not be a good idea to pass out.

                “Did you have any visual disturbances prior to the beginning of the headache?  Bright spots or blurred vision—”

                “ _Si_.”

                “It sounds like you’re having a migraine, Father Ortega.  Have you ever had one before?”

                “No.”

                “It probably doesn’t help right now, but many people experience migraines and sometimes they only have the one.  Others may continue to suffer them over a period of time.  Are you undergoing a period of unusual stress in your life?”

                Olivia barked a laugh.

                “Livvy,” Tomás begged.

                “Normally,” said Doctor O’Malley, “when patients present with a migraine, we like to do a CT scan at the very least to rule out any extraneous causes.  Migraines themselves are usually not life threatening, provided they are not symptoms of an underlying condition.”

                “He’s also having seizures,” Olivia informed the doctor.

                “ _Livvy…_ ” Tomás whispered.  He had not thought that he could be so utterly betrayed.  You did not _say_ things to the doctors, you did not _tell them things_ …

                “And he’s having a lot of trouble eating,” she added. 

                The young voice noted clinically, “You do look significantly underweight.”

                Tomás forced out the one question he needed to ask, shaping the words around deep gasps for air.  “Is there anything… you can… give me for this?”

                “There are several pain relievers that are used with migraine, and if you continue to have attacks, there are preventative medications and other measures you can take.”  The doctor wrote something on his chart.  “I will prescribe Sumatriptan for the moment, but I would like to keep you here for some tests.  Headaches and seizures can be signs of a serious underlying issue, including a brain tumor.”

                With this, Luis burst into tears.  Olivia appeared scarcely less devastated.  Their mother had died of brain cancer, so she had good reason to be frightened, it was just that Tomás knew better.  “I don’t have a brain tumor,” he gulped.  “I don’t.”  He tried to reach out to Luis without being about to see him.  “It’s okay… I’m okay.”

                The damned, arrogant voice continued, relentless.  “With all due respect, Father, we need to do these tests.  Seizures are not something you should just dismiss.”

                Olivia said plaintively, “Don’t you want to feel better, Tomásito?”

                “I—I do want… the pain killer, yes, but… I am not taking any tests.” He wondered if cutting off his own head might not be a way out of this.  At the moment, it seemed like a viable option.  “ _Madre de dios_ , can you please, _please_ , just give me something?”  His voice broke on the last word.

                “Father Ortega,” said O’Malley.  “I don’t like just handing out drugs.”

                “Then can you please shoot me in the head,” Tomás ground out.

                “That’s hardly constructive—”

                “ _Carajo_!” Tomás shouted, even though at that volume the word pierced his skull like an ice pick through an eggshell.  “I am chosen… God is speaking through me!”  A gasp for air.  “I don’t have a fucking tumor, and I…“  _Gasp_.  “…don’t need any tests!”

                Olivia and the doctor gaped at him in open-mouthed tandem. 

                “God is speaking through you?” the doctor asked.

                Olivia was scowling, Luis was still crying, and Tomás couldn’t breathe.  He didn’t feel like he was getting any air at all.  He needed to get out of here.  He spun his body towards the floor, but the doctor quickly intervened and pushed him back.  “You should stay laying down,” he said.  “Trust me.”

                “I… don’t want…” Tomás panted.

                “Father Tomas,” O’Malley said, in a patronizing tone that made Tomás want to punch him.  “Please calm down.”

                “I—I… want… to… leave.”

                “I can’t let you do that just yet.”

                “Can’t stop me.”

                “You said God is speaking through you.  What did you mean?”

                “Visions…” he wheezed.  “God sends them.  Hurts…but it’s His will.”

                “I’m sure that your faith is a comfort, Father Ortega, but…”

                “It’s God’s will that you suffer?” Olivia demanded.

                Tomás glared at his sister and forced out, “He sends… seizures, visions… it’s all _Him_.  I cast out demons.  No tumor.”

                The young man of medicine considered Tomás, wearing what he probably thought was a very fine poker face.  “Demons?” he inquired.  There was something almost self-satisfied about the question, as though he had suspected all along that Tomás was deranged.

                Tomás put all his weight into it and pushed the doctor out of his way.  His feet hit the floor with a jolt that travelled all the way up into his eyelids.  He shoved, hard, and the know-it-all _imb_ _écil_ doctor went down.

                “Tomás!” Olivia cried out.

                He didn’t know where he was going, except that he was going to get out of this damned hospital.  Every step was a misery.  The fluorescent lights attacked him and he careened off of a pushcart full of linens.  He tried to shield his eyes and somehow see at the same time.  Behind him, he heard the doctor shout something.  He heard Olivia and Luis in great distress. 

                A meaty fist closed on his left arm, and then another on his right.  Before he knew it, he was being dragged in the opposite direction that he wanted to go. 

                “No, no, no… it’s God’s will…!”  The two orderlies lifted him up and pinned him to a gurney right there in the hallway.  Not so long ago, he’d have been a bit more of a challenge for the two of them; as it was, desperation and adrenalin made him little more than an annoyance.  “ _Es la voluntad de Dios_ …you … take… your hands… off me!”  He bucked and reared and managed to kick one of them in the face, eliciting a pained and surprised shout. 

                “Orderly!  I need more orderlies here!”

                His time was running out.  He used the weight of his lower body to lever himself sideways.  His legs came off the thin mattress and dashed themselves against the metal frame but he barely noticed the pain.  He was almost free—but suddenly there were more hands on him and they were forcing him back onto the gurney.  He was surrounded by a ring of strange faces and blue shirts.

                A face loomed up, a demon’s head on top of a White Coat.  “Father Ortega… _Tomas_ … it’s okay, you can calm down.  We’re not going to hurt you.”

                Since they were already hurting him, Tomás didn’t feel like dignifying that with a response.  He wrestled one hand a few inches off the gurney, only to have it pushed flat.  He released a howl of mixed rage and despair.

                Then White Coat lifted a needle.  “Hold him.”

 

 


	3. Marcus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since Tomás was still asleep and might be for a while yet, Marcus and Mouse decided to drive to Oak Forest and have a gander. He’d once managed to track down Casey Rance within the giant city of Chicago, with only “packs of dogs” and “disturbances” for leads, so it wasn’t a complete stretch to think they might find a possessed girl in a suburb, not if they were watching for signs. If that didn’t work, they could come back later with Tomás, let him sniff out the demon. He was increasingly adept at such things, even if Marcus preferred not to make him do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this a little ahead of schedule to buy myself a little extra time tomorrow!

 

  

                One didn’t have to be a prophet to see that Olivia was very angry.

                Upon their arrival at her place in the dead of night, and at the moment she laid eyes on her brother, her lips went thin and the colour rose in her face.  She had said nothing, however, inviting them in and getting them all settled.  Tomás had been nearly asleep on his feet, so Marcus appreciated the reprieve.

                Although he had fallen asleep immediately, Tomás was restless until nearly dawn, tossing and mumbling the names of his family in patent distress until finally Marcus pulled him into his arms and recited the Hail Mary in Spanish over his head.  Maybe it was the prayer or maybe just the familiar sound of Spanish, but Tomás settled and fell into a deeper sleep, leaving Marcus very pleased with himself.  It was always satisfying to find something that worked.

                He was roused by the fragrance of coffee.  In the kitchen, he found a bleary-eyed Olivia.  “Good morning,” she said, her tone neutral.

                “Good morning.”

                “Coffee?”

                “God, yes.  Thank you.”

                As he drank his coffee, he fully expected the interrogation to begin, but he was saved by Mouse coming into the kitchen.  Olivia offered her coffee as well, and then left the room.  Marcus heard the shower running down the hall and, soon after that, the beginnings of sounds that suggested a small boy was about to enter the conversation.

                “ _Talitha cum_ ,” Mouse said, sipping.  She had her back to the counter and was looking down at Marcus where he sat at the dinner table.  “That’s from the Bible, it’s—“

                “’Rise, girl’.”

                “And ‘she is burning’, as in her soul is burning?  The child is burning.  I’m guessing that means possession.”

                Marcus nodded.  He kept his volume low and his words oblique, not sure what Olivia or Luis could hear.  He would much rather that Tomás was the one to tell his sister about his new relationship with God.  “Did this one feel different to you?”

                “Perhaps more urgent… but then they all are.”

                “He’s never addressed me directly like that.  I don’t like it.”

                “You know God wanted you back with Tomás.  I guess He figures he can address the mail to you if He wants.”

                “Still don’t like it.”

                There was a noise of footsteps in the hall.  Hesitant, child-sized footsteps. 

                “What about forest of oak?” Mouse wondered.  “He said it over and over.”  Marcus frowned, shook his head and nodded towards the hallway, but Mouse was either oblivious or didn’t care.  “And ashes… ashes and oak.”

                “A forest somewhere,” Marcus sighed, playing it cool as Luis appeared in the kitchen. He was a brilliant kid, in Marcus’s opinion.  Smart, funny, affectionate.  Tomás was the only man in his life, and probably the closest thing he had to a father.

                “What are you talking about?” the boy wanted to know.

                “Just a puzzle we’re trying to solve,” Marcus replied.

                “I heard you talking about a forest.”

                Mouse looked impatient, but Marcus said, “A forest of oak.”

                “You mean Oak Forest?”

                Marcus sat forward. “Oak Forest?”

                “It’s a suburb south of Chicago,” Olivia said, stepping up behind Luis and putting her hands protectively on his shoulders.  She was wearing a bathrobe and had a towel wound about her head.

                Luis informed them, solemnly, “You got it backwards.”

                “Looks like we did,” Marcus agreed.

                Since Tomás was still asleep and might be for a while yet, Marcus and Mouse decided to drive to Oak Forest and have a gander.  He’d once managed to track down Casey Rance within the giant city of Chicago, with only “packs of dogs” and “disturbances” for leads, so it wasn’t a complete stretch to think they might find a possessed girl in a suburb, not if they were watching for signs.  If that didn’t work, they could come back later with Tomás, let him sniff out the demon.  He was increasingly adept at such things, even if Marcus preferred not to make him do it.

                They drove around Oak Forest for a while, watching for anything unnatural:  Living or formerly living things rotting and decaying; packs of dogs or conglomerations of rats; people looking haunted; outbursts of violence; strange bits of weather.  But the City of Oak Forest presented itself as a perfectly picturesque, white, middle-class oasis.  Although the history of the place went back over a hundred years, and parts of it were at least that old, many of the houses resembled those that one could find in any suburb of any city in America, thirty years old at the most, often alongside brand new townhouses and condominiums.  Yards were large and well-groomed, and neighbourhoods encircled by parks and green spaces.  Oak Forest contained none of those densely populated, dissipated urban spaces to be found in Chicago, places where demons could easily crouch in a dirty corner, whipping the lost and the indigent into a froth.  Anything untoward here would be happening behind closed doors.  With a sinking feeling, Marcus realized that they would have to make Tomás play blood hound.

                At around 3:00 Marcus’s phone rang, and he was a little taken aback to see TOMAS on the display.  For straightforward reasons, his partner rarely called him.  When they were separated, which wasn’t often these days, and they needed to communicate, it was usually over simple logistics that could be dealt with by text.

                “It’s Tomás,” he informed Mouse.  He pressed TALK and said, “Whatcha?”

                “Mr. Keane?” said a small, scared voice.

                It took him a second to connect the voice to a known quantity.  “ _Luis_?”

                “Uncle Tomás …” the little boy whimpered. 

                Marcus was instantly on high alert.  He barked, “ _What’s happened to_ Tomás?”  This, quite naturally, had the opposite effect to that which he wanted.  He heard another whimper but no actual words seemed forthcoming.  He made a concerted effort to lower the volume.  “Luis,” he said with false calm, “You called me, yeah?  You wanted to tell me something?  Something about Uncle Tomás?”

                “I took his phone ‘cuz he forgot it at home and I knew you’d want to know.”

                “That was good thinking,” Marcus encouraged.

                “Mamá made him come here but he doesn’t want it and they won’t let him leave now.”

                “Where’s here?  Where’s here, Luis?”

                “Hospital.”

                “Bloody hell.”

                “Uncle Tomás said his head is hurting so bad he wants to die.  They want to make him take some test but he won’t and Mamá’s crying.”         

                “Luis, where are you?  What hospital?”

                “I don’t know.”

                “Do you know where it is?  Can you ask someone?  Please?  I want to help but I need to know where you are.”

                After a breath, the boy said, “Okay, hang on.” 

                There began a short, but still very long time of waiting.  Marcus heard noises in the background as, presumably, Luis went in search of someone who might be willing and able to answer his questions. 

                “What’s going on?” Mouse asked quietly.

                “I don’t know, exactly, but it sounds like Olivia took Tomás to the hospital.”  She hissed unhappily.  “Luis said they won’t let him leave.  I don’t know if that’s true.  Bugger it—!”  He broke off as Luis was back. 

                “Mr. Keane?”

                “Yes.”

                “It’s called Saint… Saint Mary… and Elizabeth…Medical Center.”

                “Saint Mary and Elizabeth.”  Marcus nodded at Mouse, who already had her phone out and was searching.  “Are you in Casualty—I mean Emergency?”

                “Um… I don’t know.  I don’t think so.  They made Uncle Tomás take some medicine.”

                “I’m going to get there as fast as I can.  And Luis?”

                “Yeah?”

                “Don’t leave your uncle alone for even a minute.  Make sure you or your mom are with him all the time.  If you see any strange looking men or women, you tell someone immediately.”

                “Okay,” Luis said, sounding very scared.

                “I’m going to hang up now.”

                Marcus disconnected and forced himself not to throw the phone or smash his fist on the dashboard.  Mouse was already taking an exit to get on an expressway.  He said tightly, “I shouldn’t have left without talking to her—no, I shouldn’t have left him alone.”

                “Marcus, he’s a fully grown man.  He should be able to stop his sister from taking him to a hospital if he wants.”

                “I’m not so sure about that.  And it sounds like something bad is happening.  Something we haven’t dealt with before.”  Marcus wanted to kick himself.  Hard.  “I shouldn’t have left.”

                “You couldn’t have known this would happen.”

                Of course he should have known, he thought, because when could Tomás ever catch a break?

                It took far too long to get to the hospital.  Marcus kept his road rage in check, but barely.  All he could think of, all he could envision, was Tomás helpless in a bed with a damned cloud of ash circling his head.  Marcus would have liked to believe that Tomás was too strong to be tempted, but he knew perfectly well the sort of deception and trickery a demon could use in seducing a human receptacle.  And Tomás was without defenses right now.

                Mouse burned rubber up to the Emergency Department entrance, where Marcus leapt out of the truck and ran into the hospital, irrationally expecting that the answer to his needs would present itself immediately.  The front lobby was typical of many hospitals he had seen; perhaps older than some he had been in, and there was a six-foot, brushed steel cross hanging predominantly on the wall adjacent to the entrance.  The Emergency Room waiting area was filled with people in various states of misery, none of them Tomás, and several of them gaped as he hurtled past them.  Most were completely consumed by their own suffering, though.

                “Tomás Ortega,” he gasped, presenting himself at the information desk.  “Can you tell me where he is?”

                The woman behind the desk considered him with an expression of barely polite disinterest.  “Is he a patient here?”

                “Yeah, he’s a patient here,” Marcus snapped.  _Why the fuck else would he be asking?_

                She took her time punching some keys on her keyboard.  After a pause she said, “He’s just been admitted to the psychiatric unit.”

                Marcus’s heart dropped into his stomach. 

                When he got to the psychiatric floor, he found Olivia and Luis in another, smaller waiting area.  Like every waiting room he’d ever been in, it was sterile and monochrome, offering little in the way of comfort.  There were the usual rows of chairs and couches, and little side tables with donated magazines.  Olivia patently had no interest in reading about “The Miracle Fix for Cellulite” or “How to Put the Pizazz Back in Your Relationship”.  Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes red and swollen.  She was holding Luis on her lap, despite his age and size, and he was sniffling quietly into her neck.   

                It was unfair, but Marcus’s aggression instantly found a target in Olivia.  He was well aware that she was just trying to do what a loving family member would do, what any rational person would have done under the circumstances—but she might have just destroyed Tomás. 

                “Why?” he demanded.  “Why did you bring him here?”

                Even sodden with misery, Olivia’s glare was uncompromising.  “He seems to believe he’s getting messages from God,” she returned.  “Do you know anything about that?”

                Marcus realized that he had to sort his thoughts into some sort of coherence.  He needed to get to Tomás more than he needed to explain things to Olivia at the moment.  “I do know something about it, but I need to see him right now.  I need to talk to his doctor—and why the _fuck_ would you bring him _here_?”

                Olivia shifted Luis off her lap and stood to confront Marcus.  “Have you looked at him lately, Marcus?”

                “All the time.”

                “He’s sick.  He needs help.”

                “He isn’t sick per se—”

                “Oh, right!  He’s a _prophet_!  Do you know how insane that sounds?”

                Marcus opened his mouth to use some words that he might regret later.  Fear had him by the throat, and fear always made him angry.  He forced himself to calm down. 

                “Olivia,” he said, in his most heartfelt, earnest voice.  “I know this is the worst possible time and I know exactly how it sounds, but Tomás _has_ been receiving visions from God.  They give him seizures and make him feel like crap most of the time.  He is _not_ delusional.  You believe me?”

                “I don’t know,” Olivia said.

                “Yeah, that’s fair.  Do you believe at least that I care about him too and I want to get him out of here?”

                “Marcus, he was trying to exorcise the doctor!  They think he’s out of his mind and… he lost it when the doctor was trying to get him to stay.  He’s not acting like himself.  Maybe… maybe he needs to be here.”

                “No,” Marcus said, barely able to keep from growling.  “He does not.”

                Olivia bit her lip.  “You didn’t see what he was like.”

                “I don’t have to.  Now where is he?”

                “They gave him some drugs to help with the pain and… “

                “The pain?”

                “He had a migraine, that’s why I brought him.”  Finally, there was a crack in Olivia’s anger, and her fear flooded out.  Her voice trembled.  “I—I thought he might be having a stroke.”

                Marcus held back the words on the tip of his tongue. 

                “I think they sedated him,” Olivia continued.  “The doctor said he called for a… a psychiatrist to consult.” 

                “Do you remember the name of the doctor who ordered it?”

                “O’Malley, I think.”

                Marcus ran his hands up into his hair and rubbed his skull.  He had something of a headache himself.  “Christ, what a bloody mess.  Right, the first thing to do is to convince them to let him go.” 

                She nodded, pressing her lips together to keep the emotion back.  Maybe they weren’t seeing eye to eye on the subject of what Tomás needed most right now, but at least Olivia was on the same page with him on one basic point.  In fact, she seemed eager to let him take the lead on this campaign, perhaps realizing that he had the right kind of experience and attitude.

                Marcus took a deep breath and walked up to the nursing station.  There was a nurse sitting on the other side of the counter, working over a computer.  She was wearing maroon scrubs and her hair, a salt and pepper mix, had mostly escaped from her ponytail.  She appeared harried and exhausted which, in his experience, was the case for most personnel in the helping professions.  He said, “I’d like to see Tomás Ortega, please.”

                The nurse, to her credit, put aside her work and looked him in the eye.  “I’m sorry, sir, but he’s asleep and not seeing visitors right now.”

                Marcus had never been celebrated for his negotiation skills.  He summoned every last bit of patient fortitude for this performance.  “I’m his spiritual advisor.  And I’m his closest friend.  Surely that’s important at a time like this.”

                She hesitated.  “Are you a priest too?”

                “Yes,” he lied without missing a beat.  “Father Marcus Keane.”  He knew the chances that they would check on his status were slim.  People had a very difficult time saying no to priests, and he had used that fact to benefit his cause many times in the past.  Of course, in the past, he had actually been a priest, but he had few qualms about lying for Tomás’s sake.

                She chewed her lips.  “Father, I would like to accommodate you but we have rules.”

                “I thought that emotional and spiritual support were critical to recovery.”

                “Of course they are—“

                “I would just sit with him and pray.  What harm could that do?”

                She didn’t answer, and he knew he had her.

                “All right,” she sighed.  “Follow me.” 

                He let her guide him down the hall to the room where they were holding Tomás.  It was not a private room; there were three other wretched souls housed there, in various stages of medicated stupor.  Marcus stood over the bed in question, avoiding looking too carefully at Tomás for the moment, and said, “Thank you so much….?

                “Sandra.”

                “Thank you, Sandra.  Oh, and Sandra?” he called as she turned to go. 

                “Yes?”

                “Could you ask Dr. O’Malley to stop in when he has a chance so I can speak to him?”

                She paused, frowning like she knew she had been manipulated but was powerless to unravel it. She nodded.

                As the door closed behind her, he allowed his emotions to bubble up.  He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.  The formerly robust Father Tomás Ortega of St. Anthony’s who had come to his door to bother him back into the exorcism business was now ill and grey, drugged out of his skull, strapped to a bed.  There was an IV line protruding from his right hand, running up to a bag of clear fluid hanging just behind and above him.  He was wearing one of those flimsy gowns that always reduced a person from their vital self to a mere bit of meat and skin, although there was a blanket covering him.  Even in his drugged unconsciousness he looked pinched and pained, his eyes sunken.  His skin bore an unhealthy sheen.  Marcus could hardly blame a doctor for wanting to keep him in the hospital.

                “Oh, my boy,” Marcus whispered.  He brushed at the tangled hair.  “My beautiful boy.”  He glanced at the ceiling in accusation.  “Damn you.  Was this part of your plan then?”

                At his touch, Tomás shifted a little and smacked his lips.  His eyes remained closed, but he tried to move his hands, coming up against the restraints.  An expression of deep distress played across his face as he pulled at them.

                Marcus leaned in, putting his face as near as he could get.  “Tomás, can you hear me?  It’s Marcus.”

                “Mrrcss…”

                “Good enough.”

                “Mar-c…”

                “I’m here, sweetheart.  I’m going to get this all sorted for you, I promise.”  Marcus traced the beloved lines of Tomas’s features with a finger.  “You have to do something for me though.  No more talk about demons or prophecy for right now, yeah?” 

                He wasn’t confident that Tomás could hear him, or if he could, that he could comprehend and commit to any such request.  Yet Tomás reacted with a visible flinch as an arrogant young punk in a white coat stomped into the room.  The so-called doctor could not have been out of his twenties.

                “What are you doing with my patient?”

                Marcus straightened up.  “Dr. O’Malley, then?”

                “Yes, and who are you?”

                “Marcus Keane.  I live and work with Tomás.”

                “You shouldn’t be in here.”

                “Dr. O’Malley, I understand that you’re young and you don’t want to lose face in front of the other baby doctors but you’ve made a mistake and I’m here to help you dig yourself out.”

                The young man folded his arms.  “Oh, really?”

                “Should I continue?”

                “By all means.  But you should know that I have every intention of placing Father Ortega on a 72-hour involuntary hold.”

                “That doesn’t surprise me.  Tomás told you what we do, yeah?”

                “What you…do?”

                “Tomás told you we’re exorcists.”

                The man’s mouth flapped a little. 

                “I get that this is difficult for a modern man of science, but the fact is that the Catholic Church has an Office of Exorcism and it does receive requests for exorcisms that are duly carried out.  Whatever you may think possession is from the psychiatric perspective… it _is_ our job.  We only go where we’re asked to, and we help people to feel better.  We always get a psychiatric evaluation first.  Now, surely that doesn’t make us psychotic.”

                “Your… _friend_ … said that God talks to him.”

                Despite the tone, Marcus could see doubt on the haughty face.  He’d confronted that sort of attitude in similar young faces all over the world, particularly when their worldview was being challenged.  He said, extemporizing, “Tomás is a very spiritual man, doctor.  He feels the presence of God in all that he does.  Maybe you think that is foolish but it is an accepted sort of delusion in our society.  If you lock him up, then you’ll have to lock up half the priests in Chicago.”

                “Mr. Keane, is it?”

                “Father Keane,” Marcus corrected.

                “Father Keane.  Your partner told me to my face that he cannot be sick because his seizures and headaches are caused by God talking to him.”

                _Bloody hell, Tomás, what were you thinking?  Or were you thinking at all?_  

                Marcus replied smoothly, “And I will be having a talk with him about that.  We may be priests but we also live in the modern world.  I promise you, Tomás will be getting fully checked out.”

                At this, something seemed to visibly unclench in O’Malley.  “And if it turns out he has a serious illness?”

                “Then we’ll get treatment, though God knows how we’ll pay for it.”

                Mention of such mundane concerns as money seemed to be the last nail in the coffin of the man’s suspicion.  He said in a much more reasonable tone, “Father Keane, I really don’t care what people believe as long as it isn’t causing harm to themselves or others.  It only seemed to me that Father Ortega is… He seems very unwell.”

                Marcus moved a step closer, a gesture towards intimacy.  “You’re right.  I’ve been worried about him for a while.  The truth is that he’s afraid of doctors.  Something about his childhood in Mexico.”

                The youthful head bobbed up and down; confirmation of his worst suspicions about such backward countries, of course.  “I see.”

                “He’s been having a very stressful time.  We’ve been on the road and he’s been away from his family.  And we had a difficult case where a man died and he feels responsible.” Marcus silently prayed that Tomás couldn’t hear him and that God would forgive him for his lies.  “I fear he’s depressed… no, I _know_ he’s depressed.”  Nothing like saucing the lies with a little bit of truth.  “He could probably use therapy and medication.  But he’s not delusional and he’s not a danger to himself, I swear to you.  If you release him, I promise you we’ll make appointments for every kind of test known to God and man.”

                Dr. O’Malley looked over Marcus’s shoulder at Tomás.  Whatever he saw there seemed to satisfy something, provide some sort of final diagnosis.  He gave a nod and said, “All right.  I’ll sign his discharge papers.  But don’t rush it, he’s going to be out of it for at least a couple more hours.  He had a pretty severe migraine.  He could use the rest and hydration.”

                _Migraine?_  Olivia had said that but somehow it hadn’t sunk in.   

                “Can I at least take the restraints off?” he asked.

                The doctor paused just a moment.  “Yes,” he allowed.  “Just tell me you can keep him in the bed.”

                “I can do that.”

                Marcus exchanged a nod with the young man.  He had no idea if he had just delivered Tomás into hell or merely committed him to some minor inconvenience.  He supposed he would find out soon enough.

                O’Malley said, “I’ll get the paperwork done, and I’ll write him a prescription for six Sumatriptan but that’s all I can do right now.  He’ll need to make an appointment with someone for a full physical including a mental health assessment.  There’ll be a referral to a neurologist and an order for a CT scan and bloodwork.  I trust you’ve told me about _all_ his symptoms?”

                Marcus put on his most innocent face.  “What do you mean?”

                “Beyond the seizures, headaches, poor appetite, depressed mood…”

                “I guess you could include insomnia.”

                “Yeah,” the doctor said, unamused.  “You could.  Anything else?”

_Near ingestion by a demonic entity?  Glossalalia?  Regular visual and auditory hallucinations?  Non-existent sex drive?_

                “No, sir,” Marcus said.

                Once O’Malley left the room, Marcus immediately went back to Tomás and removed the restraints.  It was easy enough; they were just Velcro pads buckled in place with canvas straps that were affixed to the metal bed frame, keeping Tomás from moving his hands and feet any distance.  This made it impossible for him to remove even one at a time, effectively keeping all four limbs pinned. 

                There was a locker standing against the wall just a few feet away.  Marcus went to it and opened it, and found Tomás’s clothing and shoes inside.  Satisfied with the state of things for the moment, Marcus dragged a visitor’s chair as close to the bed as he could get it, sat down, and took Tomás’s hand.  Tomás rolled his head towards him and made a sound that closely approximated frustration. 

                “Hey, dopey, you trying to wake up there?”

                Long eyelashes fluttered and Tomás tossed his head.  He was fighting very hard to achieve consciousness.  Marcus thought he should just tell him to surrender and sleep.  He hated seeing Tomás in this bed, but he was secure for the time being, and he had promised the doctor he would make Tomás rest.

                “It’s okay, luv,” he soothed.  “You’re safe.  Let the drugs do their job.”

                He couldn’t be sure, but he thought that Tomás heard him.  The restless tossing quieted and Tomás subsided into a more peaceful pose.  The strained expression on his face eased.  Marcus tugged the blankets up as high as he could get them and smoothed the rat’s nest of hair. 

                Shortly after that, Olivia and Luis were allowed into the room; Olivia stood over Tomás cooing to him in Spanish for a long time, while Luis held his hand.  Mouse showed up, having found a place to park the truck and having eventually tracked them down.  She kept watch over Tomás—and Luis, who did not want to leave his uncle’s side—while Olivia and Marcus went out into the hallway for an intense, whispered conversation.

                “You didn’t tell me what was going on!” she accused.

                “I left you alone with Tomás so he could tell you,” Marcus defended himself.  “I had no idea this would happen!”

                “You had no idea,” she echoed, clearly skeptical.

                “He had a vision last night, before we arrived.  It’s why we were late.  Usually right after he has a vision he’s good for a couple of weeks but this migraine… that’s never happened before.”

                Olivia pinched the place between her eyes and breathed, visibly mastering herself.  “How long has he been having visions?”

                “Technically, he and I met because of a dream he had.  But to answer your question, he started actively having—I guess you could call them visitations—about six months ago.”

                “Six… months… ago.”

                “Yeah.”

                “And he never… _You_ never thought I should know.”

                Marcus offered a compassionate wince.  “It’s a difficult conversation to have over the phone, you must admit.”

                “How do you know—?” Olivia began and broke off.  She stared at the wall behind Marcus, composing herself.  “What happens exactly?”

                “It starts with a seizure.  Usually lasts a couple of minutes.  Then he talks… in a whole bunch of languages.  I don’t even know what they all are, but there’s always information in it.  Information about a possession.  We work it out and then we find the possessed person and we exorcise them.  And we’re working on translating the rest of it.”

                “How do you know it’s really from—from God?”

                Marcus heard what she was really asking.

_How do you know my brother isn’t insane?_

                He put his hand on her shoulder.  She allowed it.  “If he were delusional and just having an episode, there would be absolutely no way he could know the things he does.  We’ve found people and saved them, people we would never have known about.”  Marcus squeezed gently.  “And you need to understand, he’s not just some human satellite tower.  He goes into the minds of the possessed and exorcises them from inside, while Mouse and I work from the outside.  It’s remarkable, really.  I used to think it was just demons messing with him but I’ve accepted that this is a gift from God.”

                “Gift,” she scoffed.  “Look what it’s doing to him.”

                “Olivia… I’ve been trying, I swear I’ve been trying to get him to take care of himself.  It’s just not that easy.  He’s so damned—“

                “—stubborn,” she finished for him, with a rueful smile.  “Believe me, I know.  When we were little, I had to take care of him sometimes.  He will absolutely not do anything he doesn’t want to do.  He would sit there in his chair with his arms folded for hours and not a drop of food would go in his stomach.”

                What followed when Tomás woke up was a perfect demonstration of Olivia’s point, and perhaps also a demonstration of the moodiness that was, according to the booklet provided by Dr. O’Malley, a common aftereffect of migraine.  The first challenge proved to be getting Tomás to allow Marcus to help him to put on his clothes.  He was weaving and unsteady on his feet but he refused the offer to use Marcus as any sort of hitching post.  Then he was glum and sulky throughout the entire business of being picked up off the floor and assisted to dress. 

                Nor did he seem inclined to forgive Olivia right away for having dragged him into the entire cock-up.  He didn’t say a word to her as Marcus took his arm and—slowly—walked him out of the psychiatric wing and out of the hospital.  He refused the offer to go back in her car with a single head shake.

                Once he had seen Tomás gently deposited in the truck, Marcus did not hold back.  He reminded Tomás that he only had one sister and that she adored him despite his own best efforts to take her for granted and that he had better get his head sorted.  As Marcus delivered this diatribe, Tomás’s head gradually sank lower and lower, until it was entirely buried in his knees, his fingers laced around the back of his skull. At that point, Marcus figured he should stop.  

                Into the expanding silence, Mouse said, “I’ve booked a suite for us at a hotel.”

                “Suite?” Marcus said.

                “Maybe ‘kitchenette’ is a better word.  I think we’re going to be here in Chicago for a while and we need a base of operations.  I don’t want to put Olivia and Luis out like last night for a long stretch, and while you and Tomás are focussing on other things, I can try and track down this girl.”

                “Hmm.  Good idea.”

                “There’s room for everyone,” Mouse tossed over her shoulder, presumably at Tomás.  “If you want.  There’s one room with the kitchenette and another through an adjoining door.  The hotel is a five-minute drive from Olivia’s place.”

                “That’s brilliant,” Marcus said, wanting to express gratitude not just for this gesture but everything she did, quietly and efficiently without being asked. 

                She snorted.  “Save it for when I’ve done something actually extraordinary.”

                Back at Olivia’s apartment building, Tomás walked in on his own, albeit with Marcus and Mouse spotting him on either side.  He hadn’t said a word since Marcus had torn a strip off him in the truck.  Olivia invited them all back in to her home with a smile that Marcus interpreted as regretful.  She offered tea, which Marcus declined politely.  She seemed exhausted, and Luis was equally knackered.

                There was a very awkward pause as they all stood there, not sure how to proceed.

                “Olivia,” Mouse said then, “Thank you for taking us in last night.  I really don’t want to impose on you and Luis and further though.”

                “Oh, it’s fine,” Olivia said.  “Please, I insist.”

                “Really, I can’t.  I have a hotel room.  I’m going to grab my things and go, but I hope I’m still invited to the family feast when it happens.”  Mouse smiled, recalling to Marcus the nun that she had been—so sure of herself in her duty in so many ways, poised and always gracious to those who required it.

                Olivia’s returning smile was more than a little pained.  “I am sorry I couldn’t make you more comfortable.”

                “Not at all.  I’m sorry for taking your bed away from you.”

                Mouse vanished down the hall to collect her things. 

                Just as Marcus was trying to think of how to introduce the subject of his leaving as well, and with Tomás in tow, Tomás surprised all of them with his voice.  “Livvy,” he said.  “Marcus and I are going to the hotel too.

                Olivia looked stricken, and Luis cried, “No, you just got here!”

                Tomás began speaking in Spanish to them.  _I’m not leaving town_ , _mi hermana,_ Tomás promised.  _We will see you every day.  It is just a very small apartment_.

                Olivia, undoubtedly not realizing that Marcus was fluent, immediately fell to tearful self-recrimination.  _I’ve driven them out.  I made them feel unwelcome_.

 _No, Livvy, no.  That’s not true.  We want to make it easier for you is all, so the visit can be pleasant.  We’ll be right around the corner_.

                Marcus made a mental note that he and Mouse would have to be more careful about what they said when they thought Tomás was asleep or unaware.

_You’re angry at me.  I’m so sorry, Tomás.  I was just so scared._

_You did what anyone would do._

_You are angry, though._

                Tomás stepped in, took his sister’s hands and kissed her on the cheek.  _You are my big sister, forever and always.  I love you, and it was just all a big mess today._

_I love you too, little brother.  I hate what this is doing to you… this thing that God has given you._

_Marcus told you then?_

_Yes.  Tomás, it’s… I don’t know._

_I don’t know myself_ , Tomás sighed.  He released Olivia, ran his hands up into his hair and scratched his scalp.  _Que sera, sera, yes?_

                Olivia managed a smile then.  _Que sera, sera._

                Tomás resumed in English. “Livvy, I’m sorry, but I need to go.  I’m so tired and you and Luis look beat too.”  Tomás gestured to Luis.  “C’mere, you.”  He groaned as Luis wrapped himself around him in a tight hug.  “Marcus said you were a hero today.  I’m so proud of you.”

                “Don’t go,” Luis pleaded.

                “I’m not going away, _cari_ _ño_ , I promise.  I’m just going to sleep somewhere else for now.”

                “Okay,” Luis finally agreed, with patent reluctance.

                Marcus collected their luggage.  Tomás gave his sister another kiss on the way out. 

 

 

 

 

                Their new lodgings were in a three-floor hotel sandwiched between a Middle-Eastern restaurant and a convenience store.  It was definitely not new or particularly well-appointed, but it looked clean enough, which was more than Marcus could have said for some of the places they had stayed in.  Their “suite” consisted of one room with a queen bed, a small attached kitchenette and a beat up sofa directed towards the television.  The walls featured a remarkable teal green fake wood wainscoting paired with an elaborate retro patterned wallpaper.  The furnishings were vintage chrome and vinyl that could have sold to some hipster for a lot of money if they’d been kept in top condition.  There was a small balcony facing the street, on which two lawn chairs had been placed.  An adjoining door led to another, smaller room with a double bed. 

                “You two take the main area,” Mouse volunteered.  “I’m fine with the double.”

                “You sure?” Marcus asked.

                “Yeah.”

                With that, Mouse walked directly through the connecting door and shut it.  The message seemed clear:  she was not available for further conversation.  She had her own television and bathroom and the numbers to a couple of take-away delivery options, not to mention the possibility of shwarma just downstairs—everything a girl could need.

                “Thank you for this—!” Tomás called after her, and frowned. 

                Marcus shrugged.  Mouse was Mouse.

                “I’m going to lie down now,” Tomás sighed.    

                “Hold up,” Marcus said.  “How long has it been since you ate something?”  He would be willing to bet that Mouse had already provisioned the place and, opening the fridge, he saw that he was correct.  “Also, if you’re up to it, I’d like to talk to you.”

                “Marcus,” Tomás complained, but he slumped into one of the chrome and vinyl chairs.  Marcus placed a boxed, chocolate-flavoured nutritional shake in front of Tomás.  Tomás picked it up, looked at it with its hopefully-positioned straw, and made a face.  “I’m not dying.”

                “But you’re not exactly _eating_ either.”  Marcus pointed at the shake.  “Half of that before you sleep.”

                Tomás donned the mild, noncommittal expression that must have served him well with especially difficult parishioners.  It made it appear that he was listening with an open spirit, but Marcus knew from hard experience that Tomás had already made up his mind and had no intention of being persuaded.

                “You wanted to talk to me?” Tomás prompted, sounding entirely too reasonable. 

                “Your head is okay right now, yeah?”

                “It’s… not bad.”

                “Get to it then.”  Marcus gestured at the shake.

                “I’m not drinking this.”

                “It’s either that or I sit on you and force a shwarma down your throat.”

                Tomás folded his arms.  “I call a bluff.”

                Marcus sighed heavily, appealing for guidance to the ceiling.  It was, no surprise, unresponsive.  “I call _your_ bluff is what you mean to say.  So I have a question.  How much do you remember about this afternoon?”

                “How much do I remember?”  Tomás folded his hands on the table, still wearing his pleasant demeanour.  “Let’s see.  I remember begging a doctor to shoot me in the head.  I remember being dragged off kicking and screaming while sobbing like an insane person in front of my family.  I remember waking up unable to move, half-naked, drugged out of my mind.  And then I remember hearing you tell the doctor that I’m sick and depressed and that you’re going to deal with me because I’m an old-fashioned, foolish, Mexican priest who doesn’t understand the modern world.  Does that sound accurate?”

                Tomás delivered this entire speech without raising his voice at all, but there was a definite crack in the mask now.  He was never able to hide anger for long.  Or hide much of anything, really.

                “You remember everything then,” Marcus concluded.  “So… I need to apologize.”

                “For what?  You said what you had to, to get me out of there.”

                “Are you angry or not?”

“I don’t have any right to be angry.”

                “Of course you do.”

                Tomás shrugged.  He was obviously emotional but also working very hard not to be.  “Honestly,” he said, his eyes on the table.  “I can’t be angry at you.  You saved me from a bad situation by lying to an asshole.  I know you didn’t mean what you said.”

                Marcus reached across the table, offering his hand.  After a pause, Tomás took it.

                Very gently, Marcus said, “I did mean some of it, luv.  That bit where I’m worried about you all the time, that was the truth.”

                “I know and I’m sorry—”

                “Will you stop that?  The point is that—that I care about you.”  Marcus told himself to stop being a coward.  “I love you, actually.  I’ll do anything to protect you.  You know what I’ve already done.”

                Tomás didn’t let go of his hand, but he was fidgeting in his chair. 

                Marcus continued, “So maybe God is driving this bus, but who says it has to be so completely bollocks?  The Lord helps those who helps themselves, remember?”

                “What are you saying?”

                “You don’t have to be so tired and sad all the time.  You don’t have to be in pain.  I’m saying it isn’t such a bad idea to get some help.”

                “Like from a doctor?”  Tomás wrenched his hand away, wrapping his arms around himself as though to contain himself.  “I don’t want to, Marcus, please don’t make me.”

                The extremeness of this response took Marcus by surprise.  He protested, “I’m not making you do anything.”

                Far from being soothed, Tomás shot up and began to pace back and forth, tracing a misshapen, manic circle.  For a man who had suffered through a migraine, had been recently sedated and was barely moving under his own power just minutes ago, it was a startling capacity for motion.  “First Livvy, then the doctor, and now you, now _you_ do it—”

                “Tomás, calm down.”  Marcus chased him down, taking him by the shoulders.  “The last thing I want to do is force you to do anything.”

                “But you promised that doctor—”

                “So?  It’s not like he can throw you in jail for not following up.  It’s your decision.”

                “You ordered me to drink that thing!”  Tomás flung out a hand in the direction of the table where the chocolate shake sat, rejected. 

                “So don’t drink it!”

                “ _Estoy tan cansado de no tener otra opci_ _ón…_ so… tired of having no choice!”

                There was a wildness in Tomás that Marcus had never seen before.  “Tomás, stop!” He gave his apprentice a single shake, to get his attention.  “Just stop it.”

                Tomás froze, staring at Marcus.  Just as quickly as he had begun to panic, he came unstitched.  He was obviously exhausted, physically and emotionally, animated solely by nervous energy.  His eyes glistened with moisture, and Marcus pulled him into a hug.  He could feel Tomás trembling in his arms, and wished he could press for an explanation.  He did the only thing he could think of, which was to gently stroke Tomás’s neck. 

                Over the next minute or so, Tomás gradually calmed a little, and there came a tremulous whisper:

                “I’ve never felt pain like that.  I’m scared… I don’t know how anyone can live like that.”

                “Some people do,” Marcus replied.  “But they don’t live well, or easily.”

                “I want to have some sort of life.  I don’t want to be this—this _lump_ that you and Mouse are just hauling from place to place.  I want to play football with Luis, and I want—” Tomás pulled back so he could look into Marcus’s face. “I want more with you.  More than just sleeping together.”

                Marcus just took him in.  Even wraithlike and at his wit’s end, he was still the most beautiful thing Marcus had ever seen.  Marcus wanted him, had wanted him for some time now.  But Marcus was also a man who was accustomed to putting his personal desires on hold in deference to something more important.

                Tomás went on, “I know you want more too.” He blushed, looking at his feet.  “I feel it…sometimes, when you’re… hard.  When we’re in bed together.”

                “Bloody… hell,” Marcus choked.  “I’m so sorry.”

                “No, no, that’s not what I mean.  I… I want you too.”

                 “For what it’s worth, I could be happy just holding you… maybe the occasional snog....”

                “But I wouldn’t.  I don’t want you to be my human teddy bear.”  Tomás took in a long breath.  “I need to see the doctors.  All the doctors.  At the very least they can help with the migraine, but… maybe they can help with all the other stuff too.  I… Marcus, I haven’t felt like… I can’t…”

                Marcus just nodded.    

                “I need your help, though,” Tomás continued.

                “Of course.”

                “Because… because you were right.  I really am afraid of doctors and I don’t know how I’m going to do this.”

 


	4. Tomás

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I like to imagine the writer of Job scribbling away in furious anger at God and falling back on the answer that the Lord’s design for us is beyond our understanding and so we should just shut up and be stoic in our suffering… because that’s really all the answer we have in the end. Then he tries to throw the entire manuscript on the fire. And then his assistant creeps in and rescues it and it ends up in the Bible despite the author’s best intentions.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some actual action in this chapter!

                Speaking his confession to Marcus left him feeling endangered and ashamed for reasons he didn’t understand.  He’d never told anyone about this thing that had loomed so large within him.  It was strange and also rather humiliating to realize that something that had always been so real and so substantial in his mind could still sound so trivial and foolish when spoken aloud. 

                He wasn’t an ignorant man, whatever the O’Malleys of the world might believe.  In his preparatory studies to be a priest, he’d been trained in counselling and social work.  He was very well aware that he could be diagnosed with panic disorder and that his specific phobia wasn’t unknown.  It might even be considered somewhat common.  His thinking was full of cognitive distortions, and it was probably based in some earlier trauma that he hadn’t worked through.  Basically, he’d freaked the fuck out because a doctor tried to compel him to stay in a hospital for a very reasonable purpose. 

                Knowing all this helped him not one iota.   

                They were lying in bed now, he and Marcus, side by side.  Tomás was trying to consciously loosen the muscles in his body.  He had yet to read the booklet on migraines that they’d brought back with them, but it had to go without saying that stress was a factor.  When he’d been running regularly, relaxation came easy; since he’d stopped, his body felt like a jumble of sticks and rocks.  

                “So you don’t like doctors,” Marcus said. “Is that why you, erm… went a bit off your trolley?  At the hospital?”

                “ _Si_ ,” Tomás breathed.  He didn’t know how it was possible for a headache to exhaust every muscle in his body, but he didn’t want to do any more talking. 

                “Has this happened before?”

                “No, because I haven’t been sick before.”

                “You haven’t been to a doctor at all.”

                “No.”

                “Not even for routine check ups.”

                “No.”

                Marcus was quiet but Tomás could hear the cogs turning in his head.

                “I’d like to go to mass in the morning,” Tomás said, recalling that it would be Sunday. 

                “All right.”

                “You don’t have to come—”

                “’s fine.  I’d like to come and it’s not like I have an ‘E’ branded on my forehead.”

                Tomás turned on his side, hugging his pillow against his face.  It was one of those thin hotel pillows, but he got it bunched up under his chin just the way he liked.  “I’m going to sleep now,” he announced.

                He slept dreamlessly for once, perhaps courtesy of the drugs lingering in his system, and got up in time to go to an 11:00 a.m. mass with Marcus, Olivia and Luis.  Mouse declined to join them. 

                Very often on the road they had been unable to get to church because they would be enmeshed in an exorcism, or investigating one, or because Tomás was an invalid yet again.  Mouse and Marcus didn’t seem to have the same enjoyment of that particular ritual that he did, so he had never pushed it.  Standing in a church on a Sunday, taking in the smell of the oiled wood, the incense, the sound of the choir in song and hushed voices mumbling the liturgy… It was something he had missed.  It was safe and familiar, centring in the same way that prayer could be centring. 

                To do it with his family was even better.  It had been over a year.  Olivia was not such a dedicated church-goer that she never missed a day, but she was present more often than not on Sundays, and Luis had been an altar boy, of course.

                There was another ritual that Tomás had been missing.  Before the start of the mass, he slipped into one of the confessionals.  He and Marcus talked a lot, told each other a lot, but there was just something cathartic about handing his sins over to God, via one of His appointed representatives.  For most of his life he’d made his confessions face-to-face—to his community priest in Mexico, to his advisor in seminary, to Bishop Egan, and while they had known him and offered varying degrees of counsel, there was always the ritual structure that kept him grounded and soothed his guilt more than mere conversation ever could.

                Crossing himself, he whispered, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.  It’s been…more than a year since my last confession.”

                From the sound of the voice, the priest on the other side of the screen was very old.  “What sins have you to confess, my son?”  He spoke the words like he’d said them a million times, yet he still could convey that he cared about the individual sinner before him.  Tomás had once aspired to that sort of professional poise.

                “I’ve told many lies,” Tomás began.  “I do it for good reasons, to achieve good, but still I lie.”

                “We all have our reasons,” the priest returned.  “Continue.”

                “I… I have allowed myself to feel pride in my achievements, forgetting that it is God who makes them possible… I have been selfish.  I’ve taken advantage of a person who loves me and let them give me far too much of themselves.  I’ve been…filled with self-pity.  I’ve given in to despair.  Things got… difficult… and instead of accepting God’s will for me, I’ve indulged in feeling sorry for myself.”

                “Everyone feels that way sometimes, my son,” the elderly voice admonished.  “Perhaps you are being too hard on yourself.”

                “Perhaps.”  Tomás thought that the priest might not agree if he knew all the details, but he couldn’t possibly share them.

                “I sense that you are not as kind to yourself as you are to others.  Can you be as generous to yourself as you would be to a complete stranger?”

                Marcus had made a similar point to him some time ago.  It was true that he would have held no judgement against someone for being sick and needing help, but for some reason, he kept telling himself to sit down, be quiet, stop making a fuss.  He worried that Marcus would grow weary of his neediness.  He sighed, “I… I can try.”

                “Are you familiar with the Book of Job, my son?”

                “ _Yes_ ,” Tomás said, almost snapped, then chided himself.  The old priest couldn’t read his mind and know that he was well-versed in scripture.  It was his frustration with the message that he anticipated receiving next that made him take out his anger on an anonymous voice.

                “I take it that you don’t find comfort in that message,” the priest said gently.

                “I find it… unsatisfying.”

                “Not surprising.  I like to imagine the writer of Job scribbling away in furious anger at God and falling back on the answer that the Lord’s design for us is beyond our understanding and so we should just shut up and be stoic in our suffering…  because that’s really all the answer we have in the end.  Then he tries to throw the entire manuscript on the fire.  And then his assistant creeps in and rescues it and it ends up in the Bible despite the author’s best intentions.”

                Tomás laughed.  “I can see that.”  

                “Is there anything else?”

                “Some time ago… I had an affair with a married woman.”

                The priest chortled.  “Saved the best for last, eh?”

                “It didn’t last long, but I lusted for her for a long time before that.  I resisted for years and then I made the decision to give in for no good reason.”

                “Did you love this woman?”

                “She’s the only woman I’ve ever loved.”

                “And did she love you?”

                “Yes, I… I think so.”

                “Well, perhaps that was the reason.”

                Tomás was astonished.

                The priest went on, “It is unfortunate that life often takes us so far from what we would choose for ourselves.  Have you asked for God’s forgiveness?”

                “Many times, Father.”

                “I have the feeling that you make a practice of denying yourself.  You don’t believe you deserve to be loved or cared for, and so you judge yourself for having very natural human needs.”

                Tomás was again startled by the priest’s perspicacity.  “I think maybe you are right, Father.”

                “I want you to reflect on why you have this lack of self-love.  Remember, we are made in God’s image.  We are all worthy of love because God loves us.”

                “Yes, Father.”

                The priest muttered the Latin words of forgiveness and finished, “Say five rosaries.  Go in peace, my son.”

                Tomás left the confessional feeling somewhat lighter than when he entered.  He hoped it would last but feared that it wouldn’t.  Marcus, waiting for him in one of the pews with Olivia and Luis, gave him a curious glance, like he was wondering what secret guilt Tomás might be harbouring, or perhaps worrying that he might have started spouting off about prophecy and demons again.  And yes, Tomás was embarrassed that he had lost control of his mouth the day before with O’Malley and had made so much trouble for himself, trouble from which Marcus had been required to rescue him.  He would have explained that the combination of his panic and the soul-crushing pain in his head had made it impossible to think straight… but Marcus hadn’t asked.  Marcus was being excessively kind.

                Just one more reason why he had to try to deal with the doctors and appointments, as much as he didn’t want to.  Marcus loved him and was being very patient with him.  He was terribly grateful for that but he couldn’t put Marcus through it indefinitely.  Marcus was a sensual man who’d undoubtedly been through long periods of celibacy, and he was now released from his vows.  He could have had anyone but he was waiting around for Tomás, and that on top of all the other things Marcus was doing for him. 

                After the mass, there was a long walk in a nearby park with Olivia and Luis, followed by some deep dish Chicago-style pizza.  He was then deposited back at the hotel for an afternoon nap.  He fell asleep in the midst of his third rosary, and woke to the sounds of Marcus and Mouse deliberating over what to order from a Chinese take-out for dinner.

                “Sweet and sour chicken for sure—“  Marcus lifted his head from the menu he was studying.  “Oh, hey, sleeping beauty’s awake!”

                Tomás sat up and rubbed his eyes.  “Chinese food?”

                “Luis is going to join us.  Olivia is going to have dinner with some girlfriends.”

                “Oh.  That will be good for her.”  As a single mother, Olivia had always relied heavily on Tomás for last minute childcare, a service that he had been more than happy to provide.  With him gone, her opportunities for time to herself, or a night out, would have been few and far between.  He was glad that she was taking advantage now that he was here.

                “Any requests?”

                “Something with vegetables.”

                Marcus acceded with a nod.  His and Mouse’s particular generation of British seemed to believe that “vegetables” consisted of things like chips in beef dripping, or “bubble ‘n squeak”, not that Tomás had any idea what that was.  The first time Tomás had tried to order a salad at a drive-through, Marcus had mocked him so hard that he’d been offended and didn’t speak to Marcus for a whole hour.  Of course, since Tomás hadn’t been eating much of anything of late, he had let nutritional balance go by the wayside, defaulting to anything he could keep in his stomach, but now he was determined to try to get back on track.  He wanted to be able to start running again, and that would require a sufficient intake of carbs and protein.  He was probably vitamin-deficient as well—hence the vegetables.

                Olivia dropped off her son around six and, shortly afterwards, a delivery boy dropped off a huge, grease-stained paper bag containing sweet and sour chicken, pork spare ribs, Cantonese chow mein, mixed vegetables with shrimp and deep fried won tons.  Tomás found that he was actually hungry.  He ate a bit of everything, and especially enjoyed watching his nephew devour his meal; Chinese food of this kind was a treat for Luis. 

                It was gratifying, too, to see that Marcus and Luis got on marvellously.  Not that it was a surprise; Marcus had always been great with children, and Luis seemed to trust him implicitly.  Mouse was a little bit of a tougher sell, but by the end of the evening Luis had gotten her to smile a few times.  They had discovered _Con Air_ , which happened to be one of Tomás’s favourite Nick Cage films, on TV and they all sat together watching and ironically commentating. 

                “This man is a terrible actor,” Mouse declared halfway through.

                “I beg to differ,” Marcus confuted, and winked at Tomás.  “He has an unusual style of delivery, that’s for sure, but it’s hard to stop watching.”

                “That’s charisma, that’s not acting talent.”

                “Honestly,” Tomás said, “I don’t care if he’s good or not.  I just like him.”

                Mouse rolled her eyes.  “My point exactly.”

                “Stop arguing!” Luis begged.

                “We’re just having a discussion, m’duck,” Marcus said to him.

                “It sounds like arguing.  You’ll give Tio a headache.”

                Tomás cringed.  It was bad enough that Marcus and Mouse were being put in the position of being his caretakers, but to have Luis guarding himself, restraining his ordinary exuberance out of a worry that Tomás was some fragile invalid—it was intolerable.  Their relationship was something that Tomás had worked hard to achieve and this would twist it into something else, something he definitely didn’t want. “I’m fine, _mi_ _cariño_.”

                “Mamá was yelling yesterday and then you got sick.”

                “Oh, no, no, no… your mama did not give me that headache, Luis, I promise.  It started way before that.”

                “Are you very sure?” Luis said, quite skeptical.

                Tomás ignored Mouse’s smirk and Marcus’s forced blandness.  “Yes, I’m very sure.”  He knew that he was telling the truth, strictly speaking, but he still felt like he was lying for some reason.  And the next question took the breath right out of him, although there had been no reason to suppose that Luis would never ask it.

                “Do you fight demons, Uncle Tomás?”

                Mouse and Marcus were absolutely _fascinated_ by the explosions on the TV screen.

                “Where did you hear that?” Tomás asked.

                “You said it yesterday.  And I heard Mamá say it too.”  Luis did not look scared, exactly.  Tomás didn’t know what to make of his expression.  “But that doctor thought you were crazy.”

                A sidewise glance at Marcus indicated that he was working hard to keep his face neutral.  Tomás wished that he would participate.  He must have had conversations like this before, many times, and especially with children.

                “I’m not crazy, Luis,” Tomás said. 

                “I know _that_ ,” Luis huffed.

                “And… I know it sounds scary… but yes.  There are demons in the world.”

                “What do they look like?”

                “Um…”  Tomás sent furious, silent signals to Marcus, begging for an intervention.  “They don’t look like anything.  They’re like… bad energy.  Sometimes that bad energy gets inside people and it makes them very sick.  So we have to work hard to get it out of them.  Just like when you get the flu.”

                “Oh.  Could the bad energy get inside me, or Mamá?  Or you?”

                Apparently, Marcus was oblivious to the messages Tomás was transmitting. 

                “It will not get inside you,” Tomás assured the boy.  “You don’t have to be afraid.  There’s…” He thought frantically.  “There are rules about how and why they get inside, and how we get them out.”

                “Like what?”

                When Tomás had chosen the priesthood, one of his greatest regrets had been that he could not be a parent.  He’d done his best to be a substitute father for Luis but, right now, he was very glad to be an uncle who could hand an overly inquisitive child back to his mother at the end of the evening. 

                He ventured, “If you love God with all your heart and say your prayers.  And wear the crucifix I gave you.”

                “Okay,” Luis said.  His round, sweet face was perfectly trusting.

                A little while later, after Olivia had retrieved Luis and taken him home, Tomás rounded on Marcus, “Thanks for the help!”

                Marcus lifted both hands, absolving himself.  “He’s your nephew.  I didn’t want to interfere.”

                “What you mean is, you’re afraid of Olivia.”

                “Yes.  Yes, I am.”

                “But you must have had to explain demons to children before.  I could have used your input.”

                “You did fine,” Marcus dismissed, with a wave. 

                “Oh, sure, yes.  Now he’s going to be terrified that if he says a bad word or forgets his prayers one night, the demons will get him.”

                Mouse observed, “It’s not like you had a lot of options.”

                “The reality is,” Marcus expounded, “there is no way to be perfectly protected from demons.  You know how it works.  Demons find the cracks in people and it doesn’t matter how good or loving or devoted they are to God.  But it’s not like you could tell him that, so might as well tell him he’s safe.”

                Mouse nodded agreement.

                Tomás stared at the two of them.  He said, “Thanks.  Good talk.” 

                “Any time,” Marcus replied.

                “I’m going to bed.”

                “Okay.  I’m going to stay up for a while, do a bit of sketching.”

                “ _Buenas noches_.”

                Marcus said brightly, “G’night, luv.”

 

 

 

 

                First thing next morning, Marcus called to make appointments:  one with a general practitioner, for a full health assessment, and one with the neurologist to which they’d been referred, for a consult on the migraines and seizures.  Tomás asked him to do it because he knew that if left to his own devices, he would never call.  On the same day they received a call from a clinic to schedule Tomás for a CT scan and bloodwork.  Both were for the following morning, and because of the blood tests, Tomás had to fast after 8:00 p.m.  At least the fasting part would be easy, he thought.  The physical was to be in a week but the neurologist couldn’t see him until a month later, and that was deemed to be relatively high priority scheduling.

                So either they would stay here for a month or they could leave and come back for the appointment.  Marcus seemed to be content to settle in for a bit of a longer stay, but Mouse… Tomás knew Mouse.  She would be ready to climb the walls before a week was out unless she had some demons or demon-sympathizers to battle.

                Thinking about all of this, and particularly about upcoming rounds of tests, made Tomás’s heart begin to jackrabbit in his chest.  He needed something else to concentrate on.

                “What if…?” he began.  Mouse glanced over at him from where she was sitting, eating cereal.  Marcus was scratching in his notebook and had yet to take his eyes off the pages.  Tomás was sitting on the worn couch; he’d been pretending to read but mostly he was just jittering and tapping his nails against the faux-wood armrest.  “What if we go see if we can find the girl this afternoon?”

                Mouse looked dubious.  “Are you sure?”

                “I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t sure.”

                “As long as you feel up to it.” 

                “Yes, I’m up to it!” Tomás snapped.  He rubbed his brow.  “Forgive me, but I have this fear I will die tomorrow so I need to get things in order today.”

                Marcus looked up from the sketch he was working on.  “Say what, luv?”

                “From a scan?” Mouse said.

                Tomás’s heart thumped even harder.  He folded his arms over his chest and tried to shrink into the cushions.  As far back as he could remember, he’d hated calling attention to himself.  Oh, he was aware that he could be perfectly obnoxious in the service of others, and he had been, he’d hounded Bishop Egan with his demands for the Homeless to Houses program until Egan had surely dreaded the sound of his voice.  But this was something else.  He must not be obtrusive with his own needs, his own desires.  When he was a nuisance, he made trouble for everyone.    

                “You know that’s irrational, yeah?” Marcus said, quite unnecessarily.

                “I’m aware of it, yes.” 

                Tomás tried not to look too desperate as both Mouse and Marcus assessed him, probably questioning his fitness for work.  He hated it.

                “All right,” Marcus said, finally, putting down his notebook.  “Let me just get showered and we’ll go.”  He proceeded into the bathroom, taking his duffle.

                Tomás relaxed as much as he was able.  He got up, closing the space to the table where Mouse was located, and sat down across from her.  “I would like to help this girl who is burning,” he said. “Or at the very least find her.”

                Mouse set down her spoon, abandoning her breakfast to irreversible sogginess.  “You remember talking about the girl?” she asked eagerly.  She was always fit for work—something that she and Tomás had bonded over early on.  Mouse took it to another level, though; she didn’t know what to do with herself if not fighting. 

                “No, Olivia told me,” he said, but it wasn’t quite true.  There was an itch in his mind, a sense of something… cinders, ashes.  The taste of burning tears.

                Mouse told him, “Marcus and I went for a drive around Oak Forest the other day.  Nothing leapt out.  Does the word ‘ash’…or ‘ashes’… mean anything?”

                “Ashes?”

                “Oak and ashes, you said.”

                “Ashes, like the trees.”

                Shrugging, Mouse answered, “Or ashes from a fire.  You kept saying she’s burning.  Do you remember any of it?”

                Tomás shook his head in frustration.  If God was going to be constantly putting things in his head, the least He could have done was to give him an equal capacity to make sense of those things.  But he was, as ever, stumbling in the dark.  He ran his fingers up into his dishevelled hair, massaged his scalp.

                Unexpectedly, Mouse grinned at him.  “You sure look the part of a prophet with that mop.  Are you planning on cutting it at some point?”

                “No.”  He added, a little bashfully, “Marcus likes it.” 

                He ducked his head at her keen glance, but she said only, “It is an impressive head of hair.  I don’t remember a time when Marcus wasn’t thinning, although he used to wear it long.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him it made him look like a refugee from a Black Sabbath tribute band.”

                “Mouse, you don’t mind, do you?”

                “Mind?”

                “Me and Marcus…?”

                “Oh, no!” she laughed.  “It’s been a long, long time since I felt that way about him.  I was young and it was more an infatuation than anything.”  She rested a hand briefly on his forearm.  “Let me just say I’m chuffed about it and leave it at that.”

                “Chuffed?”

                “I’m happy for you.”

“What’s that?” Marcus said, poking his head and bare shoulders out from the bathroom.  “What are you two cooking up?”

                “Nothing,” Mouse returned.  “Hurry it up, would you?  I’d like to get out of here sometime today.”

                “Take it easy, just give me five minutes here.”

                It was something more like twenty minutes, and by then Mouse was nearly wearing a hole in the floor.  And the drive to Oak Forest took the better part of an hour, mostly due to city traffic, although Mouse was of the vocal opinion that she could have made it there faster, had she been driving.  Marcus ignored her suggestions, manipulating the steering wheel with that perfect arrogance with which he did things sometimes.

                Even though he had lived in one of the largest cities in the world, Tomás could still marvel at Chicago with its antithetical mix of shining, futuristic architecture and ugly, urban clutter.  Watching the city was a good way of not thinking about tomorrow’s ordeal.  It was a magnificent and terrible city, and Tomás had once thrilled at the thought that he, a boy from a poor background, was making his way there.  He was past such prideful thoughts now. 

                Or he could focus on enjoying the weather, for it was a very fine spring day.  March in Chicago could be changeable but today the sky was perfectly blue, the air warm.  It was the kind of day he would have enjoyed to the full in his previous incarnation as a parish priest, that sort of day that seemed to be making a promise:  _winter is going, going, gone, warmer times ahead_.

                When he ran out of things to look at through the windows, he tried listening to the radio for a while, but Mouse had some news program on and he was too agitated to focus on it.  So he stared at the short, fine hairs at the back of Marcus’s neck, longing to bury his nose and sniff.  Marcus always smelled of the musky aftershave he used, and whatever soap the hotel had on offer, usually some cheap version of a botanical garden.  Marcus was his home, he realized. 

                A pulse of pain above his eye dragged his attention away from Marcus.  _Not again, not today!_ he pleaded.  He braced himself for the next throb of agony… but there was nothing.  He muttered a quick prayer of gratitude.

                Out the side windows of the truck cab he recognized the main street of Oak Forest.  He’d been here a couple of times during his tenure at St. Anthony’s.  It wasn’t the sort of place he’d ever felt connected to, although he could see the appeal.  He watched the shops and people gliding by, parading a mundane, suburban life that he would never seek—

                He saw a demon.

                 “Stop!” he heard himself say, out of the blue.  “Stop here!”

                “Oy!” Marcus cried.  He jerked the wheel rather abruptly, making the truck veer towards the side of the street.  Someone behind them honked in outrage.

                “Let me out!”  Tomás pushed on the handle to the backseat door.  The door flew open with the truck still in motion but the imperative pushing him was not concerned with the constraints of fragile human flesh.  “I need to get out… out, need to get out—”

                “Bloody Hell!” Marcus yelled. 

                “Tomás—” Mouse growled, trying to reach behind herself to block him.

                The truck lurched to a stop, more or less at the side of the street blocking the exit of several cars that were parked diagonally along the main drag.  There were further blares and howls of protest. 

                “Same to you, wankers!” shouted Marcus.  “Dammit, Tomás—stay put!”

                But he didn’t have time to explain or to stay put.  He was out of the truck and on the asphalt.  He didn’t exactly know what he was doing or why, only that he had to move.  He saw one whom he must follow and it couldn’t wait:  A blonde head, a middling tall girl, currently without a face as he was staring at the back of her.  She was alone, moving quickly and purposefully.

                Footsteps and a body landed behind him, reminded him uncomfortably of what had happened at the hospital.  Someone took his arm.  “Tomás, what?” Mouse gasped, breathing hard.  “What is it?”

                He took off at a run.

                Behind him, he could hear Mouse cursing as she ran after him.  Mouse was in decent shape, he knew, but she did not enjoy running.  He was not much enjoying it right now himself; his ankles and knees seemed to have been stripped of any cushion from the impacts against cement.  Every step sent a jolt of discomfort through him, all the way up his back and into his neck.  But he leapt onto the sidewalk and darted after his quarry, nearly mowing down an old couple who were walking arm in arm, dodging around a woman in spandex walking her dog.  Mouse was tossing apologies in his wake. 

                Finally, he skidded to a stop in front of the window of a Pinkberry Frozen Yogurt shop. 

                The girl that he had been following had joined a group of friends, all of them between sixteen and eighteen, and they went into the shop.  There were five of them—three boys and two girls.  They were all dressed in t-shirts with something similar written on them.  At the moment, Tomás was incapable of reading it.  He stood at the window and stared at them as they milled about in that pink and green and pristine white space, filling large, waxed paper cups with yogurt, fruit, syrup and candy.  They were laughing and joking with each other, very much the picture of normal teenagers doing what normal teenagers did while playing hooky on a Monday afternoon.

                “Is she the one?” Mouse pressed.  “Tomás?”

                One of the youths inside saw him.  The boy’s eyes narrowed.  He pointed at Tomás and laughed.  Tomás saw him mouth something.  He was pretty sure it was _look at the freak_.  All the others turned their bright eyes on him.  Round, black eyes, like crows lined up on a wire. 

                The horror of what he was seeing wreaked havoc with his nerves.  He shuddered and shivered as the children watched him.

                Marcus came pounding up to them.  “What?” he demanded, wheezing.  He put a firm hand on Tomás’s arm.

                Tomás turned away from the window, shrugging off the grip.  “We should go,” he said.

                “What the actual fuck, Tomás?”

                A voice inside Tomás wanted to cringe and beg for forgiveness.  He insisted, “We—we need to go.”

                “I just got here, though.  Who are we looking at?”

                “Them.”  Tomás nodded at the pack of teenagers.  “Them.”

                “What about them?” Marcus asked.  “Talk, dammit!”

                Tomás started slightly.  Then something occurred to him which should probably have been obvious, on reflection.  “You can’t see it,” he realized.

                “See what?”

                “Those children are all on fire.”

                It had to be tough to find a down-to-earth response to a statement like that.  Still, Marcus and Mouse were so completely agog that it struck Tomás as humourous.  He giggled.  The sound burst inappropriately out of him, and once it did, it was followed by another, and another.  Before he could stop it, he was cackling outright, but he couldn’t remember why he had thought anything about the situation was funny.

                People all around were staring at him, as well as the burning children through the windows, and his partners.  Yes, he was being quite alarming now, was he not?  Responsible adults would have to keep an eye on this wild-haired, wild-eyed man in Salvation Army chic.  He was a _right nutter_ (as Marcus would have put it) who stalked children, ranting about them being on fire.  Tomás was now the man who had immolated himself outside the hotel where the Papal Planning Committee had met, a year and forever ago.  He was the stranger who mouthed things that made no sense and frightened parents and children, the freak who made decent people uncomfortable and needed to be removed from places by security.  He was _that_ guy now.

                It was the fact that he was being surveyed by at least one demon who knew exactly who and what he was that made him stop laughing abruptly.  They were all watching him intently, flames licking hungrily at their skin and clothes, as plain as the neon adorning all the signs in the shop.  And no one but he could see it. 

                “We have to go,” he said again.  He was endangering Mouse and Marcus along with himself.

                “What do you mean they’re on fire?” Marcus hissed.  “Are they possessed?”

                “Some.”

                “Some?”

                “At least one.”

                “You can see the demon.”

                “Yes.”

                “But just one.”

                “ _Yes_.”

                “Why are they all on fire then?”

                “I… I’m not sure—”

                “And… you actually see flames.”

                “They’re burning, Marcus, I can see it!” Tomás seized both of Marcus’s forearms. “They’re going to burn up, all of them!”

                “Okay, all right,” Marcus soothed.  He cradled Tomás’s face in his hands in that way that he always did to comfort him.  “I believe you.”  He addressed Mouse.  “If we go, how will we find them again?”

                “Look at their shirts,” Mouse answered.

                Marcus looked past Tomás, through the windows.  “Mount Ashford Catholic Academy,” he read.

                Tomás didn’t want to look.  It hurt his eyes.  It hurt his head.  But something made him turn.  Yes, they were all wearing the shirts.  Goldenrod with purple print.  There was a stylized silhouette of a tree in the same purple.  The words read _Mount Ashford Science Club_.

                There was a pull upwards, a tug on his head.  His eyes moved in that direction and found the eyes of the blond girl with the demon in her.  He was sucked down into a familiar whiteness.

                Next thing, he found himself standing in a derelict church.  The walls were weeping with mold and moisture, rotting away on all sides.  The floorboards felt soft under his feet, and the roof had gaping holes in it.  The altar had been overturned, was partially covered in blackened, stained silk.  A chalice sat on its side, out of which a thick, clotted, unwholesome-looking blood was half-poured and gelatinously half-clinging.  

                The young woman was standing before him, the one he had followed to the yogurt shop.  She was pretty in a fragile, delicate way, with pale, freckled skin and large blue eyes.  She was wearing the Mount Ashford Science Club t-shirt and looked utterly normal, except for her claw-like hands and red eyes.  When she spoke, her voice was thick with demonic distortion.

                “You only get this one warning,” she hissed.  “Stay away.”

                “I can’t do that.”

                “Oh, but you can, Father Tomás.”

                “What’s your name?”

                “Amelia.”

                “Your _real_ name?”

                The red eyes seemed to burn into an even harder colour.  The girl replied, as though she couldn’t help herself, “Vaasa.”

                Tomás promised, “I’m here to redeem you, Vaasa.”

                “You don’t get to do that.  Not you.  You’re just an instrument for the man upstairs.  Why are you even here?  You’ve done your part, playing fetch for God.  Now go sit.  Roll over.  Play dead.”

                “What do you want with these children?”

                She cocked a head at him and smiled.  Her teeth were rotting.  “It’s not what I want.  It’s what he wants.”

                “He?”

                “You should focus on yourself, Father Tomás.  Think of your family.  They need you and you’ve let yourself fall apart.  Just think of what it would do to them to lose you.”

                “I’m not dying,” Tomás said, but his heart began to gallop in his chest.

                “Are you sure about that?”

                Something told Tomás to look down at his hands.  He saw, with crawling revulsion, that they were covered in red, scabrous sores, some of them open and bleeding.  He was a defiled, defiling thing.  He contaminated everything he touched.

                “You never know what can happen when you go in one of those machines.  All those terrible rays piercing your body.  And you can’t get out.  You’re stuck in there, getting cooked.”

                “It’s going to be fine,” he mumbled.

                “You don’t believe that.  Things can go wrong.  Things _do_ go wrong, all the time.  People go into hospital for one little test…”

                 “I’m waking up now,” Tomás said. 

                He came to consciousness in the back seat of the truck.  It might have been as though the entire chase hadn’t happened, except that Mouse was now in the driver’s seat and Marcus was in the back with him, dabbing at his mouth with a pink and green napkin.  His lip felt sore and swollen, and his usual headache was back.  He thought he might have scraped his knees collapsing on the sidewalk.

                Marcus said, “Never a dull moment, yeah?”

                “Sorry,” he muttered, and winced.  Talking hurt.

                Marcus made a face.  “You spoke to the demon?”

                “It warned me off.”

                “It threatened you?”

                “It… tried.”  Tomás wasn’t much afraid of demons anymore, not exactly.  Most of the time he worried that, if he was not watchful, they would hurt someone he loved.  He hadn’t thought that he was afraid of dying either, and yet the demon had been able to get him going by whipping up his fear about the tests tomorrow.  Anxiety was a strange kind of demon in itself.

                Marcus was giving him an odd look, probably wondering not so much _if_ but rather _when_ he’d lost his marbles.  “Right, then,” he said.  “So we might have a school full of demons.  What does this mean?”

                Mouse quipped sourly, “Someone found a Ouija board?”

                Neither Marcus nor Tomás laughed.  Regan O’Neill’s possession had begun with a Ouija board.  The demon Pazuzu probably hadn’t needed it to gain entry, but had found it a useful means to get into Regan’s head nonetheless.

                “I think,” Mouse continued, “we need to go to that school, figure out exactly what we’re dealing with.”

                “Sure,” said Marcus.  “But they don’t just let strangers wander around schools.  Not like the good old days.”

                “It’s a Catholic school.  Tomás is a priest,” Mouse suggested.

                “I’m basically a cast off,” Tomás said. His lip smarted and he ignored it.  “I have no parish, no place in Chicago.  They can learn that with one phone call.  And we don’t know how many demons there are yet.  The whole place could be infested.”

                “Are they integrated?” Mouse wondered.  “Because we could just burn down the school with them in it.”

                Even Marcus seemed shocked by this suggestion.

                “No,” Tomás said.  “You’re not doing that.”

                “It may be the only—”

                “I said _no_.  You will not.”

                He hadn’t been planning on making such a decree.  He’d never considered—or desired, for that matter—seizing the authority in their little trio.  He heard the words come out of his mouth with some wonder, just as he had been taken by surprise when he suddenly needed to jump out of the truck earlier, but he wasn’t entirely sure, in retrospect, if he could claim to have had no agency in it.  Whatever the source, he agreed with the sentiment.  They couldn’t just go around killing people, even if those people were little more than demon puppets, even if they had invited the demons in.  In any case, Tomás had demonstrated that it was possible to save an integrated soul, so they had to try.

                Mouse had gone ominously quiet.  Tomás wasn’t sure if that was better or worse than having her arguing.    

                “The possessed one I spoke to in the shop wasn’t integrated,” Tomás volunteered.  “The girl’s name is Amelia.”

                Another silence.  Marcus was again giving him a look he couldn’t decipher.

                Then Marcus queried, “Since you know so much, any chance you know just how many demons we’re dealing with?”

                “No.”

                “What else did it say to you?”

                “Not much… just the usual attempts to get under my skin, telling me to focus on my family… because I might be dying.”

                Marcus blinked hard.  He said, “You didn’t believe it.”

                “No,” Tomas sighed. 

                “But earlier, you said—“

                “I know, but with my anxiety it’s like… I know I’m being irrational.  I know I’m probably going to be okay but I can’t make myself believe it.”

                Marcus commented, “You have faith in God, which is the hardest kind to have.  Why not also have some faith in the sky not falling?”

                All of a sudden, Tomás was immensely tired.  “I can’t say.”  He proposed, hopefully, “Maybe we should reschedule tomorrow’s appointment, focus on this.”

                “Nice try, but no.  The tests won’t take long, and then we can go to the school if we need to.”

_If I survive the tests._

                Mouse asserted, “While you two are at the clinic tomorrow, I’ll go do some exploring at Mount Ashford.  I suggest you wait for me to call before doing anything, or is that also against our policy?”

                Tomás considered taking up that challenge, and decided it was better not to.  He sincerely hoped that no one would die tomorrow.

                Short of sightseeing, there was nothing to do but return to the hotel, and Tomás was once again in need of a pain pill and a nap.  Before he laid down, Tomás went out on the balcony and called Olivia, eyeing the street traffic.  She was at work but happy to hear from him.  He told her about the day so far, leaving out the part where he’d fallen down and gotten a split lip.  She would see it soon enough.  He told her about his appointments and she was so excessively pleased by that, he had to hide his annoyance.  Finally, they were all invited over for a special dinner tomorrow.

 _If I’m still alive_ , he assured himself, even while telling her, “Yes, absolutely, yes.” 

                Signing off, he went in their room.  Marcus was sitting on the bed with the TV on, flipping channels.  Mouse was in her room with the door closed.  Marcus saw him and clicked off the TV.  He patted the space beside himself.  Tomás flopped onto the bed and then, hesitating, asked, “Can I…?”

                “Can you… what?”

                In answer, he edged up against Marcus, laying his head on his shoulder. 

                “Always,” Marcus said.  He lowered his own head, pressed his lips softly to Tomás’s.  Marcus liked to smoke clove cigarettes when he could get them, but he hadn’t had much time for it these past few weeks.  He still tasted slightly of the spicy sweetness and the nicotine.  Tomás savoured that flavour for a moment, then pulled back, rested his forehead against Marcus’s arm.

                “Even when you’re tired and grumpy?” Tomás asked.

                “I get grumpy?”

                Tomás smiled to himself.  “At least once a day.”

                “I don’t believe you, but yes, even then.”

                They laid there quietly.  Marcus threw an arm over Tomás, snugging him a little closer.  Tomás sighed.   “The demon is called Vaasa,” he offered.

                “All right.  That could be useful.”  Marcus paused, then:  “When you told Mouse not to burn down the school… was that you?”

                Tomás pressed his face into Marcus’s neck.  “I don’t know,” he murmured, then inhaled deeply.

                “Are you sniffing me?”

                “Yeah.  Do you mind?”

                “I smell good?”

                “Yes.”

                “What do I smell like?”

                “Your cigarettes… your aftershave… your pencils... You smell like Marcus.”

                “I always suspected you were the romantic type.”

                Sure, he was romantic.  He was also dead below the waist, and it was only a matter of time before Marcus decided he’d rather be with someone who could relate to him as a sexually mature adult.  Tomás closed his eyes and tried to get his mind and body to soften into relaxation… but now that he had time and space for it, he began once more to think about what awaited him tomorrow. 

                “I don’t want the tests,” he stated.  His heart was thumping again.

                “Tomás, what is it that scares you about doctors so much?  Can you tell me?”

                “I don’t know.”

                “C’mon, you can do better than that.”

                Tomás pulled back a bit so he could look Marcus in the eye.  “I really don’t know.  _Abuelita_ never made me go and I’ve never been sick, so—”

                “Wait a minute.  Your grandmother never took you to the doctor?  Not once?”

                “I don’t think so.”

                “You were never sick as a child?”

                “I might have had chicken pox.  But she knew how to take care of me.”

                “And… no accidents, no broken bones or falls.”

                When Tomás compared his childhood to what had passed for one for Marcus, he always felt a swell of compassion and dismay.  It was another reason he felt like a fool for complaining about his minor aches and pains.  His sad little life was nothing next to what Marcus had survived.  “No,” he answered.

                “You never fell off your bike or wiped out on the monkey bars.”

                “ _Si_ , sure.  But _Abuelita_ took care of it.”

                “Like you took care of your hand when Casey bit you?”

                “Aloe is an ancient remedy—”

                “Yes, yes, I’m not disputing that.  It’s just, sometimes we need a little help from science.  Like antibiotics for infections.”

                “I know that.”

                “Do you?”

                Marcus was wearing a condescending face and quite possibly looking at Tomás like he _was_ the stereotype he had portrayed to the doctor yesterday.  Maybe this was just Marcus’s version of being a careful listener, but Tomás was beginning to feel quite unfairly attacked.  He also felt his _Abuela_ was being judged, and he couldn’t have that.  He untangled himself from Marcus, turning his back to him and sitting up.

                “Hey,” Marcus said.

                “I don’t need you to play therapist, Marcus.”

                “I’m just trying to help.”

                “I know, and you’ve already helped more than enough, I’m going to the damned appointments, aren’t I?”  Tomás put his feet on the floor and stood.  His head spun a little but at least he didn’t have to grab at the wall to steady himself.  He considered that a win.

                “Where are you going?”

                “For a run.”

                “You haven’t gone running in months.”

                “And that’s the problem.  I need to stop lying around and just get back into a healthy routine—”

                “It’s not that simple, you know it isn’t.”  Marcus was across the bed and standing right next to Tomás.  He caught his arm.  “Don’t go.  We need to sort this, if for no other reason than the demons will have a field day with it.”

                “Demons have no power over me, Marcus!”  Tomás ripped himself away.  “I’m going out.”

                “I can’t let you, not by yourself.”

                “Dammit, Marcus!  I’m not a child who needs a babysitter.”

                “Then stop acting like one!  If you go out there by yourself and have another seizure, or a migraine, you’ll be back in the hospital before you know it and I won’t know where to find you.  I’m sure you don’t want that.  Now sit your skinny ass down, watch some TV or whatever.”  Marcus pointed at the sofa.  “You’re not going anywhere!”


	5. Marcus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It came to pass that Tomás stoned on Ativan was one of the best comedy acts Marcus had ever seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading... please keep reading...!

 

 

 

                Things had escalated and Marcus damned his temper, which could turn a disagreement into a confrontation all too easily.  Obviously there was something to this whole fear-of-doctors thing that Tomás himself didn’t understand, and Marcus, as an old neurotic himself, really should have known better than to push him.  He could turn into a right nutter if someone pressed too hard on one of his scars.  

                Still, hearing Tomás declare himself immune to the power of demons had terrified Marcus.  It made him fear that, despite what he had assured Olivia, his Tomás might actually be going round the bend.  Maybe a person could only be invaded by God so many times before their ego started to disintegrate. 

                Marcus breathed through his frustration as Tomás sulked his way over to the sofa; he turned on the TV and begun to apathetically channel surf.  When Marcus planted himself next to Tomás on the sofa, Tomás shifted slightly, opening an emotional and physical moat between them.  It was just a few inches, but it might as well have been a mile wide and a thousand feet deep.

                “I don’t want to fight,” Marcus ventured.

                “I don’t either.”

                “Look at that.  We agree on something.”

                Tomás gave a single, tight nod.  So, not forgiven yet then.

                Marcus then bore witness as Tomás flipped channels, up and down and up and down, never stopping on anything long enough to get much of a sense of what it was or if it was worth watching.  After the fifth or sixth trip from the low numbers (TV menu) all the way up to high numbers (municipal council proceedings) and then back again, Marcus was more than ready for round two.

                With teeth gritted, he turned to face Tomás and only then noticed that Tomás was breathing too fast and too shallow.  He was clutching the remote like he would sometimes clutch his crucifix, like it was the only thing standing between him and unadulterated evil.

                “Tomás…”

                Terrified eyes turned to Marcus.  Freed from pretense, Tomás dropped the remote and began gasping openly, making a sound like an ailing bagpipe.  The cut on his lip broke open and began to dribble blood.  He grabbed at Marcus, catching the nearest part of him—his upper thigh—in a painful grip.

                “Ow!  Tomás, luv… you’re hyperventilating.”

                “Can’t breathe.”

                “Yes, you can, you need to slow down.”

                Tomás shook his head, his eyes enormous and desperate.

                Marcus was about done.  “You have to fight me on this, too?  Fine, pass out then.”

                Shocked, Tomás stopped breathing for a moment, inadvertently breaking the unhealthy rhythm he’d been caught up in. 

                Marcus nodded encouragement.  “There you go.  Follow me.  _In_ …two… three… four…”

                Tomás gasped and held his breath, trying to slow down.

                “ _Out_ …two…three…four…”

                He forced Tomás through this painful exercise for several minutes, until his breathing was less frantic, more regular.  His eyes were still crazed with fear.  Tears kept building and spilling over, tracing two raw lines down his cheeks.  A slow trickle of blood marred his lower lip.  “Mar…cus,” he wheezed.  “I feel… like I’m going to die.”

                Marcus reached over and dabbed at the blood with his thumb, touching the sore lip as gently as he could.  “You’re a mess, luv, but you’re not dying.  Believe me on that.”

                Tomás did not seem like he did, but he said, “I—I believe you.”

                “Okay,” Marcus soothed, at a complete loss.  “Okay.” 

               He hated seeing Tomás in this state, he needed to _do_ something—and, practically-speaking, he couldn’t imagine how they were going to get through the appointments tomorrow if Tomás was already this unhinged—

               An idea presented itself, and he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it already. 

               “Okay,” he said.  “Here’s what we’re going to do.  I’m going out to score some benzos.  And since I can’t leave you here by yourself, you’re coming with me.  We can grab ice cream or pizza along the way if you like.  We’ll call it our first official date.”

               Tomás just nodded.  He didn’t have any noticeable reaction to the notion of relying on drugs, and that suggested to Marcus that Tomás was willing to try anything at this point.

               The neighbourhood surrounding their hotel wasn’t exactly restful.  It was not dangerous, not exactly, but it wasn’t entirely secure either.   Still, it was good to get outside.  It was an evening in late March; the day had been pleasantly warm, but now there was more than a trace of chill in the night air.  Tomás seemed to find it invigorating; the colour in his face improved and he began to take an interest in things outside himself, watching the people and traffic and breathing a bit more easily. 

               Marcus had often had need to find off-market drugs, medical supplies and even doctors, so he followed well-honed instincts to the right sort of district.  Perhaps there were plenty of straight types willing to sell a few Xanax to a man in need, but he didn’t have time to find them.  For the first time in a while he thought of Cherry and Lester.  They would have been able to set him up, he was sure.  Mouse probably knew people too.  In the meantime, though, he needed to find the right sort of—

               In a window above a pawn shop, he spotted a sign for a Dr. L. Quaid.  Certified.  Walk-ins welcome.

               They walked in. 

               Dr. Quaid was revealed to be around sixty, very thin and insalubrious in complexion. He was wearing corduroy pants and an old sweater but hadn’t bothered with a white coat, and he was intensely interested in Tomás, who was taking in his surroundings like Alice in a grubby wonderland.  Quaid’s equipment also looked old and heavily used, but at least it was clean.       

               “I’m going to get right to the point,” Marcus said.  “My friend here is having a bit of an anxiety issue.”

               “Xanax?” the doctor returned, not missing a beat.  “Ativan?”

               “Let’s do the Ativan.  I think ten will be enough.”

               “Hang on, now.  Does your friend talk at all?”

               A slum doctor with ethical boundaries.  Fine, Marcus could play along.  “Tomás?” Marcus prompted.  “Tell the doctor about yourself.”

               “I have to take tests,” Tomás told the doctor solemnly.  “I don’t like them.”

               The doctor’s eyebrows went up.  “Oh, yes, tests are the worst.  What a lovely accent, by the way.”  He shaped what he probably thought was a sympathetic pout.

               “Can you help us or not?” Marcus pressed, his skin crawling.

               Ten minutes later, after a cash transaction, Marcus left with one small bottle containing ten little white pills and another, larger bottle full of Tylenol 3s.  Quaid had put all of his wares on offer—Percocet, Demerol, Oxycontin, Fentanyl.  Marcus stocked up on the Tylenol, thinking of the migraines as well as the ongoing possibility that one of them might sustain a real injury at some point, but he deliberately steered away from the serious narcotics.  That way lay danger.  He asked about triptans and got a laugh.

                “I don’t treat a lot of migraines,” Quaid said, sending them on their way.

                Tomás seemed intrigued by the whole business.  “I never knew you were such a criminal,” he told Marcus once they were back on the sidewalk below.

                Marcus snorted.  “Yeah, that’s me, total gangster.  Seriously, if we had a regular doctor they could have prescribed a few of these for you for tomorrow.  You do what you have to… and that’s why guys like that exist.”

                “He was a bit… creepy.”

                “I have a suspicion as to how he lost his credentials, yeah.”  Marcus searched Tomás’s face.  “Shall we get something to eat?”

                “How about a shwarma?” Tomás replied with a grin.

                They had shwarma and falafel together in the tiny restaurant next to their hotel.  The place was about the size of a boxcar, the walls covered in greasy, ratty wallpaper.  There were exactly three small tables for customers to sit at, each with two flimsy, plastic folding chairs; most of the business was take-away.  Marcus considered the amount of foot traffic in and out of the place as solid an endorsement as any restaurant could want—and the food was indeed delicious.  He was pleased to see that, for a second night in a row, Tomás was making a foray into the land of solid food.  He didn’t finish his entire plate, not nearly, but he made a respectable dent in it. 

                “What?” he said, seeing that Marcus was eyeing his plate of chicken, hummus, pita bread and salad. 

                “Nothing,” Marcus said.  There was no way to say _You’re doing a good job on that_ or _Nice work on the eating!_ without sounding really, really patronizing.

                Tomás put down his plastic fork and sighed.  “Do you want the rest?”

                Marcus raised a brow. 

                “Yes, I’m done.”

                “Okay, yeah… “ Marcus agreed.  Tomás spun the plate towards him and he happily set to finishing it off, not minding that the lettuce from the salad had migrated into the hummus. 

                “I’m sorry,” Tomás said quietly.  “For how I acted before.”

                “You apologize way too much,” Marcus said, chewing.  “Are you actually Canadian instead of Mexican?”

                “I was horrible to you.”

                “Okay, yes, you were.  But it’s okay.  I get it.”

                “Do you?  Because I don’t.”

                “You’re scared.”

                “Yes, of course… that part’s obvious.  What I don’t understand is why.”

                “Well, I have been forbidden from playing therapist…”

                Tomás shook his head, smiling a little.  “You have a theory?”

                “No.  I don’t.”  Marcus shovelled chicken into his mouth, chewing vigorously.  Swallowing it down, he said, “Maybe there doesn’t have to be a reason.  Maybe anxieties just grow on certain people, like fungus.”

                “Thanks,” Tomás said dryly.

                “I’m serious, though.  Isn’t it all in the wiring?  We don’t need to figure it all out necessarily.  We have our magic pills.”  Marcus patted his breast pocket.  

                “I don’t think that’s exactly how it works… but thank you.”

                Marcus shrugged.  “You’re welcome.”

                “Marcus…”

                And then Tomás was beholding him with two perfectly wide, perfectly picturesque and rather moist eyes.  It was the kind of contemplation that a man might just have dreamed of having pointed in his direction, especially when the person doing the contemplating was Tomás.  Really, Marcus didn’t know how he’d ever managed to convince Tomás that he was worthy of this sort of regard.

                “What, luv?”

                “Thank you.”

                “You just said that.”

                “I don’t say it enough though.  Without you… I don’t know.”

                Marcus was uncomfortable.  He didn’t deserve this sort of open admiration.  “I know, without me, you’d be up a creek with no paddle.”

                “Something like that,” Tomás said softly.

                “Erm… I’m done.  Shall we go back?”

                Tomás just smiled and nodded. 

                When they got upstairs, Marcus persuaded Tomás to take half an Ativan, to test its efficacy.  As he explained, they wanted to make sure they knew what an effective dose would be for tomorrow.  Tomás wore a slightly suspicious look, like maybe he thought Marcus was trying to roofie him.  But he took the pill agreeably enough and laid down.          

               “Will you lay down with me?” he asked. 

                “Sure,” Marcus said.  He draped himself on the bed, leaving their noses just a few inches apart. He could spend hours studying Tomás’s eyes.  He put his palm up against Tomás’s face and just let it rest there, enjoying the sensations.  “How do you feel?”

                “How do I feel?”

                “Yeah, I mean, how’s the anxiety?”

                “Better, so long as I don’t think very much about tomorrow.”

                “You do realize you were just in a doctor’s office and you didn’t freak out?”

                Tomás made a noise of dismissal.  “That doesn’t count.”

                “Oh.  I see.  Why not?”

                Tomás scrunched up his face rather adorably.  “I’m not sure.”  He yawned hugely.  “Marcus…?”

                “Yeah?”

                “Have you had a lot of dealings with doctors like him?”

                “Some,” Marcus hedged.

                “Sorry.”

                “For what this time?”

                “That you’ve had to live your life… sort of… in the dark.  I’m sorry it’s been so hard.”

                Marcus snorted.  “That piece of it was always the adventure.”

                “Then I’m sorry for the part that wasn’t the adventure.  You deserve better.”

                “I don’t know what you imagine, luv, but it wasn’t all that bad.  The early years, yeah, they were a slog, but there was a lot of good after that.  I had a purpose, I felt loved, by God at least, and I knew I was good at my job.  I met lots of interesting people.”

                “And spent hours trapped in rooms with demons…”

                “Went to interesting places.”

                “Never had a home…”

                “Never really missed having one.”  Marcus moved his hand against Tomás’s cheek, rubbing it against the day’s growth of stubble.  “And now I have a really cute apprentice.  What more could a man want?”

                “A place to live.  A regular life.”

                “Boring.”  Marcus felt a flicker of alarm.  “Are you saying to you want to stop?”

                “No, no.”  Tomás yawned again, clearly falling under the spell of Dame Ativan.  “Not like I have a choice about it anyway.”

                “But if you did…”

                “I would stay with you.”

               When Mouse cracked her door a little while later, Tomás was dead asleep.  Marcus was still lying on his side, facing his beloved and indulging himself, just looking and touching his skin, his hair.  For a moment he stilled, his face a little hot, wondering if he was embarrassed.  He decided he wasn’t.

               “Good timing,” he whispered, almost mouthed.

               Mouse stole over to the kitchenette, all but soundless.  “I’ve been trying to give you two some privacy,” she said, apologetic.

               “It’s appreciated.”

               Now she was pulling the cartons of leftover Chinese food out of the fridge.  “Want some?”

               “No thanks, I ate.”

               Marcus slowly and carefully unwound himself from Tomás, taking care not to disturb him.  He joined Mouse at the table.  They sat in a companionable silence while Mouse ate and Marcus stole glances at the sleeping Tomas, enjoying the simple sight of him at rest.

                “You must be proud of yourself,” Mouse said, at length. 

                “I am, actually.”

                “Because you finally resorted to drugs?”

                “Oh, you heard that bit?”

                “Yeah.”

                “It’s fine in the short term—“ he defended.

                Mouse gave a quick, negative shake of her head.  “No debate here.  I’m a fan of Big Pharma.”

               “I mean… look at him.  I could watch this for hours.”

                “You are totally gone on him, you know that?”

                “Uh, yeah, pretty much.”

                “You ever think about how they could use it against you?”

                “Honestly… I think more about how God is using all of us.”

                Mouse pushed back her plate, laying down her wooden chopsticks.  She was very skilled with them, while Marcus always had to resort to using a fork.  “Just so you know… I intend to pay the medical bills.  Just send them all my way.”

                Marcus felt a rush of relief, followed by intense gratitude.  “Are you sure—?”

                “It’s covered, Marcus.  Now, are we going to talk about what happened today?”

                “Which part?” Marcus sighed.

                “All of it?”  Mouse cast a quick look over at the bed, verifying that Tomas was still dead to the world.  “He _ordered_ me, Marcus.”

                “Oh.  That.”

                “Yes, that.”

                “I don’t see that as coming from him, anymore than the rest of it.”

                “Are _you_ sure?”

                Marcus frowned.  “What do you mean?”

                “I’m saying maybe that wasn’t so much God as it was Tomás.  Having—delusions of grandeur, I think is the term.”

                Marcus was opening his mouth to refute this immediately, and was uncomfortably reminded of Tomas just a few hours earlier:  _Demons have no power over me, Marcus!_

                Mouse seized the opportunity left by his hesitation.  She said, “I get it, he’s been through a lot, it wouldn’t be surprising if he developed a few tics.  Like, when you don’t have control of very much, you might try to take control of what you can.  Or you might try jumping out of a moving truck because you think God is your wing man.”

                  “No.”  Marcus shook his head, confident in his conclusions now.  “He most definitely does not think he’s indestructible.  That was him being driven.  He wasn’t himself, surely you saw that.”

                “Hmm, maybe.”  She rose, taking her plate and scraping the remains into the trash.  “All I know it’s starting to feel like we’re his backup band, and maybe you’re okay with that, but I’m not.”

                “And what if that’s the way the big guy wants it, Mouse?”

                Mouse didn’t answer, but something in her face told Marcus that she wasn’t much interested in what God had to say on the matter.     

 

 

 

               

               By the time they got to the clinic, the whole Ativan that Tomás had taken an hour before had taken its full effect, and it came to pass that stoned Tomás was one of the best comedy acts Marcus had ever seen. 

               He let himself be led by Marcus’s hand on his arm, occasionally stumbling over an invisible obstacle or a piece of dust, and he seemed wholly fascinated by the colours of the various walls.  Marcus checked them in and they sat in the waiting room together.  He’d been expecting to have to pin Tomas into his chair, but Tomás sat, loose-limbed, and stared into the distance, humming an unrecognizable melody.   

               “Marcus, you know that white is supposed to be a neutral colour?” he said, suddenly holding forth.  “I really don’t agree with that.”

               “You don’t say.”

               “Yes, it’s so… harsh, so instit-too-tutional.  It’s a hard colour.  Or is it the absence of colour?  I can never remember if that’s black or white.  One of them is all and the other is none.  Anyway… I don’t like white.”

               “I get that.”

               “White walls, white coats… it’s so hard… so bright.  Why couldn’t they make hospitals more pleasant?  They hurt my eyes.”

               “I don’t know, Tomás.”

               There was quiet for all of four seconds.

               “Marcus?”

               “Yes, Tomás.”

               “I’m hungry.”

               “You can eat after they take your blood.”

               “Vampires.”

               “Uh, yes,” Marcus replied, as the woman on Tomás’s left snickered a little.

               “Serious.”  Tomás’s accent was growing very thick.  “I think they like to poke people with sharp things.”

               “They’re doing it for a good reason.”

               “I’m not sick.”

               “They can learn all sorts of things from your blood, Tomás.”

               Tomás scowled.  “I know that.  I’m not some… some ignorant Mexican like some people assume.”

               “Okay.”

               “I know science.”

               “Okay.”

               “I’m a fan of sci—

               “Tomás Ortega?” called a nurse. 

               “That’s us,” Marcus said, standing.  He offered a hand to Tomás, hoping he would act in the spirit of the moment.  Tomás it over, then accepted the hand and stood, following the nurse down the hall, pontificating about the nubby industrial carpet— _why do these places have to be so offensively neutral, Marcus, and why do they use these fluorescent lights, they are so bright and no one can possibly like them.  Why, Marcus?_

               The CT machine was an enormous, plastic construct with what appeared to be a small cave inside it.  A kind of rolling gurney was prepared to roll Tomás into it head-first. 

               “Marcus, this is amazing,” Tomás exclaimed.  “I’m looking at this thing thinking it might kill me but I don’t care!”

               Marcus and the technician traded amused looks.  “That _is_ amazing,” Marcus said. 

               The technician said, “Hi, Father Ortega, my name is Kelly, I’ll be taking your picture today.”

               “Call me Tomás, please.  If I’m going to die I would rather be on a first name basis.”

               Kelly smiled.  “Okay… Tomás.  You’re going to be fine though.”

               “That’s what you say.”

               “Because it’s true.  Can you lie down please?”

               Tomás looked askance at the gurney arrangement.  “On that?”

               “Yes.”

               “Do I have to?”

               “If you want to get the scan.”

               “I don’t really want to but I said I would.”

               “Well, then,” Kelly replied.  “Will you lay down?”

               “If I must.”

               Tomás laid on his back and was strapped onto the bed—for safety, Kelly said.  Marcus had remained at his side, stroking his arm at random intervals until then, but now he went to stand next to Kelly, watching Tomás on the monitor.  Tomas hummed and blinked rapidly, his eyes rolling in every direction at once.  He was not exactly calm, but he wasn’t panicking either.

                “Just relax, Tomás,” Marcus coaxed.

                “Mmm hmm.”

                “Try not to move,” said Kelly the technician.

               “Do I have to gag you?” Marcus said.

               “Will you sing to me?” Tomás asked.

               “What—sing?”

               “I’ve heard you singing in the shower.  You can sing.”

               Marcus looked quickly at the technician.  She was barely holding back a grin.

               “If I sing to you, will you be quiet and lie still?”

               In answer, Tomás clamped his lips together and nodded.  Kelly shook her head and sighed.

               Marcus thought for a second.  “Hmm, let me see.  How about this….?  _All my life I’ve prayed for someone to love… Wondering if my prayers were heard up above… It was a miracle, a miracle…. Heaven created a miracle, and sent me down, an angel like you_.”  He stopped, licked his lips.  He tried not to feel self-conscious.  It was one of his favourite songs by James Ray, and he remembered that it had been playing when Tomas first walked into his room at St. Aquinas. 

               “That’s good,” said Kelly.  “Just a little longer, Father Ortega.”

               “ _When we met I knew it right from the start… you were meant for me and we’d never part… It was a miracle, a miracle…_ ”

               “You _can_ sing,” Kelly noted.  “And…that’s it, we’re done.”

               “We’re done?” Tomás said.

               “We’re done.”

               The pallet rolled, Tomás was unstrapped, and he tried to sit up too quickly.  “Whoa!” said Marcus, hurrying over to steady him.  “Take it easy.”

               Tomás giggled.  “I feel so good.  Why can’t I always feel like this?”

               “I know,” Marcus said, genuinely sympathetic.  “If only life was like a constant drug trip.  It’s just not fair.”

               “Hey, Marcus?”

               “Yeah?”

               “I love your voice.”

               “Thanks.”

               “I love your face, too.”

               Kelly chortled. 

               “Thank you, luv.”

               “I ‘specially like when you put it right _here_.”  Tomás held a hand up in front of himself, two inches away from his nose.

               “Erm… okay.  Do you want to stand up now?”

               “Not really, but I will if you want me to.”

               “I do, Tomás.  I really do.”

               “Okay.”  Tomás stood, and nearly overbalanced.  Marcus kept a solid grip on his arm.  “I’m standing, Marcus.”

               “I see that.  Now we get to go upstairs to have your blood drawn.”

               Marcus led his doped up partner to the nearest elevator. Tomás presented a goofy smile to everyone who happened to catch his eye, and in nearly every case received a smile in return.  Then he either charmed or tortured everyone on the elevator with a tone-deaf rendition of the song Marcus had just sung to him. 

               “ _It was a miracle, a miracle_ —hey, Marcus?” he asked, breaking off suddenly.  “Am I your angel?”

               Marcus had never thought of himself as the easily-embarrassed type, but he found himself staring at the floor, his face burning, in an effort to avoid the eyes of the people around him.

               “Mar-cusss,” Tomás insisted.  He poked Marcus.  “’m I your angel?  Is that what the song means?”

               The elevator dinged and the doors opened.  Marcus lifted his head and saw that a few people were watching him.  Waiting for his response, apparently.  Whatever he might have feared to see in their faces, he was surprised by the reality.  There were bemused smiles and even an encouraging nod.  No hate.  He would have at least expected a judgmental glare or two. 

               “Yes, Tomás,” he said.  “I should have thought that was obvious.”  He took Tomás’s arm once again and led him into the blood clinic waiting area. 

               When it was his turn to have his fluids taken, Tomás kept his eyes closed as the needle was inserted, then watched with fascination as six vials were filled, one after the other.

               “Vampires,” he accused. 

               “Yeah, I’ve never heard that one before,” the phlebotamist said dourly.

 

               

 

 

               “Olivia, there’s something I want to ask you.”

               Later in the day, after Tomás had slept off the remainder of his Ativan buzz, Luis finally got his chance to pummel his uncle in an X-Box driving game.  The last Marcus saw of them, the nephew and uncle were sitting side by side, should to shoulder on the floor, and laughing a lot, while he and Olivia sat out on the patio, enjoying the waning daylight.  Something fragrant bubbled on the stove inside, and Marcus prayed that it didn’t have tripe in it.  Tomas had explained menudo to him but it still sounded far from appetizing.

               “Oh?” Olivia asked.

               “What’s the story with your father?”

               She gave him a curious look.  “Tomás never told you about him?”

               “He never talks about his parents.  Your parents.”

               Olivia shrugged.  “Maybe I shouldn’t tell you then.”

               “C’mon,” he coaxed.  “Dish.”

               “There’s not much to tell.  They separated when Tomás was eight and I was twelve.”

               “Where’s your father?”

               “He disappeared.”

               “How’s that, then?”

               “He hasn’t been in the picture since we were children and we don’t know exactly what happened to him.  You know Tomás went to live with our Abuela?”  Marcus nodded, and Olivia continued, “She was Papá’s mother.  Papá was supposed to live with them there but he never showed.  He was supposedly working in Argentina.  Sent a few letters and then just stopped.”

               “What do you think happened?”

               “I don’t know,” Olivia said. “And honestly, I don’t care.  He left my mother and me—and he left Tomás _twice_.  And he was a bit of an ass even before that.”

               “How so?”

               “He was a miserable human being.  I don’t know why.  Sometimes he was a lot of fun.  He could be so lovable and so funny, like he used to sing that old song _Que Sera Sera_?  He and my mama would dance in the kitchen sometimes.  He made Mamá laugh, I remember.  Tomás probably doesn’t remember as much, but I think Tomás is probably a lot like him.”

               “A miserable human being?”

               “ _No_ ,” she protested, rolling her eyes.  “Just—moody sometimes.  He can be so charming but…he takes everything so damned seriously, you know?  And Papá was always up and down and that was scary.”

               Marcus nodded.  He understood that fear all too well.  The worst thing was never the pain of being struck; it was not knowing when or _if_ it might happen again.  Even his own father had been kind once in a while, and that had been one of the cruelest things the man could have done, because it gave Marcus hope.  When his father turned on his wife and child again, it just hurt that much more.  It had conditioned Marcus to withhold trust from every person in his life.  Even with Tomás there were some parts of himself that Marcus was carefully protecting, that he had yet to reveal.  It wasn’t that Tomás wasn’t trustworthy, just that Marcus had learned early on that some injuries could never be healed once they’d been dealt. 

               “And your mother?”

               “She died ten years ago.  Cancer.”

               “I’m so sorry.”

               “That’s part of the reason that this thing with Tomás scares me so much.”

               “They told me his brain scan was normal, so you can be relieved on that score.”

               Olivia sighed deeply—and then scowled.  “How can a person be having seizures and speaking in tongues and have a normal brain scan?”

               “The will of God?”

               She gave him a sour look.  “You actually believe that?”

               “Uh, yeah.  I’ve been living it.”

               “But what does it mean, Marcus?  Is this going to be his life?  Or maybe he could… I don’t know, maybe he could ask God to make it a temporary thing.”

               “Well…”  Marcus didn’t quite know how to say that God was going to do as He pleased.  And also, that he didn’t imagine that Tomás would make that ask, if it really came down to it.  Tomás believed that he had been given a job to do, and he was going to do it regardless of what it meant to his long-term happiness or health or stability.  Marcus didn’t think that Olivia understood this side of her brother, or knew it at all, really.

               “I’m not sure Tomás gets a say in it,” he finished at last.  “Whatever he might want to say to God, God doesn’t seem to be listening right now.” 

               From inside, there was a shout of triumph from Luis and an exaggerated groan from Tomás.  Olivia winced.  “Sounds like it’s time to rescue Uncle Tomás.”

               “I never envisioned him playing video games.”

               “Oh, he’s terrible at them, but he tries.”  Olivia angled a knowing look at Marcus.  “You could go in and sacrifice yourself in his place.”

               Marcus raised a hand in surrender.  “I’ve never even been to an arcade.”

               She laughed.  “You do know that arcades barely exist anymore?”

               “Yeah, I get it, I’m old.”

               By six, dinner was ready but they were still waiting on Mouse, and Marcus was beginning to be a little concerned.  He’d had nothing from her all day, not even a text, and he knew that, despite Tomás putting his foot down, she was capable of considerable violence.  She could also have been in considerable trouble—but the fact was that she’d looked after herself very successfully for twenty years. 

               There was another fact:  Mouse did not like the idea that Tomás might become the moral authority in their little trio, or that he might start actively dictating how they would proceed on their cases.  Marcus didn’t care if Tomás started calling the shots because he knew it was not really Tomás doing it.  What point in resisting?  God could make Tomás throw himself out of a moving truck in pursuit of a demon and there was not a damned thing Marcus could do about it except trust that God ultimately wanted to preserve Tomás—more or less—intact.    

               Just when Marcus was beginning to wonder if he should try to call, Mouse showed up for dinner, looking perfectly composed and undamaged.

               Olivia dished up steaming bowls of stew, accompanied by a platter full of lime, cilantro, avocado and chilies.  Marcus watched with amazement as Tomás added enough chilies to set his head on fire.  Marcus was considerably more tentative with the garnishes despite Tomás trying to force him to add more.  

               “How can you stand it that hot?” Marcus wanted to know.

               "Training,” Tomás replied with a sparkle in his eye.  “Training from childhood.”  He tucked into his stew with relish, and the only reaction that Marcus could see was a slight beading of sweat on his brow. 

               Marcus took a bite of his own stew and was pleasantly surprised to find it very appetizing.

               “So,” he said, a bit archly.  “How was your day, Mouse?”

               “Good,” she replied.  “Very informative.”

               She was sitting next to him, pressed rather close as they were crowded around a table meant for four.  As he glanced over, he noticed that her knuckles appeared to be bruised.  And there was a tiny splash of blood on her hand.

               Mouse noticed him noticing.  She caught his eye and assumed a distinctly forbidding expression—like she thought he was going to accuse her of murder in front of Tomas’s family?

               “Olivia, this is delicious,” she praised.

               “Really?  You like it?” Olivia replied, somewhat coyly.

               “Livvy, stop,” Tomás said.  “You know you’re a good cook.”

               “Bet you don’t know what menudo means,” Luis said, thinking himself very clever.

               “Luis,” Tomás warned.

               With glee, Luis exclaimed, “It’s intestines!”

               Tomas shook his head and dished up a huge spoonful.  “De _licious_ intestines.”

               “It sounds like haggis,” Mouse said, unperturbed.  “I had a lot of haggis growing up.”

               “What’s haggis?” Luis inquired.

               Mouse obligingly described haggis to Luis.  This sparked a discussion of strange and revolting foods from around the world.  Marcus, having travelled fairly extensively in his work as an exorcist, easily took the prize with his description of fermented shark spleen and live, wriggling tree grubs.  Luis was repelled and delighted, and Tomás was laughing openly at the faces his sister was making—

               But then, abruptly, Tomás was staring at the centre of the table with a look of horror.  Everyone fell silent as he did, caught up in his dread.

               Marcus said, “I heard we are in for _tres leches_ cake for dessert, isn’t that right, Tomás?

               Tomás blinked.  Looked at Marcus.

               “Tres leches,” he said, slowly.  “That’s right.”

               He resumed eating, a bit subdued.  The cake was delicious, but Tomás ate only a few bites, then excused himself to the bathroom.

               “Should I go…?” Olivia asked.

               Marcus shook his head, rising.  “Let me.”  He walked the short way down the hall to the closed bathroom door.  He knocked once.  “Tomás?”

               “ _Si_.”

               Tomás was planted on top of the toilet with the seat down, his arms wrapped around his middle.  “I’m not going to throw up,” he said.  “I am _not_.”

               “Good plan,” Marcus replied.  He closed the door quietly after himself.

               “Livvy cooked… it’s not right.”

               Marcus perched himself on the side of the bathtub.  “What did you see?”

               “It doesn’t matter.”  Tomás squeezed his eyes shut and rocked a bit.  “Not going to throw up.”

               “Tomás…”

               “Menudo takes a long time to make.  You have to rinse and boil the tripe several times before you can even start the stew.  Olivia learned how to make it from our mother and she learned it from her mother.  It’s very traditional.  It’s made all over Mexico in different ways.  But it’s always for family celebrations.”

               Marcus rested his palm on Tomás’s sweaty back and rubbed, tracing a small circle.  When there were no words, there was always touch, to his way of thinking.

               They sat that way for several minutes.

               “Marcus?” Tomás lifted his head and looked at him with bloodshot, sad eyes.

               “Yeah, luv.”

               “Do you think God hates me?”

               “Oh, Tomás.”  Marcus moved his hand, stroking the beautiful, thick hair.  “No.  I think this is what God’s love looks like.  I think He loves you a whole helluva lot… probably way too much.”

               Tomás frowned at him.  “That’s… interesting.”

               “Think about it.  He’s capable of love, sure, but He’s not like us.  His love isn’t anything soft, or easy.  He had to become one of us so he could experience what it was like to love in the human way, but it’s been a long time since then.  A blink for Him, but still… I wonder if He even remembers what it was like.”

               “There was a time they would have burned you for thoughts like that.”

               “Or excommunicated me?”

               That drew a small chuckle. 

               “Never said I was a conventional theologian,” Marcus said with a shrug. 

               “You’re not a conventional anything.”  Tomás straightened out of his hunch a bit.  “I think I feel a little better.”

               “That’s good.”

               “Just let me have a few more minutes here.  Then I’ll… splash some cold water on my face and come out.”

               “All right.”

               Reluctantly, Marcus removed his hand.  He went back to the kitchen and sat down, once again bumping knees with Mouse.

               “Okay?” Mouse asked.

               “Yes.  He’ll be out in a few minutes.”  Marcus did not miss the open looks of relief on Olivia and Luis’s faces.

               “How did the appointments go?” Mouse added.

               “Fine, actually.” Marcus stretched and sighed.  “Remind me to tell you about Tomás stoned on benzos.  It’s a tale for the ages.”

               “What’s ben-zos?” Luis asked.

               “Never mind that,” said his mother with a glance at Marcus.

               Mouse said, “Olivia, thank you.  I can’t remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal like this.”

               “Oh, it was my pleasure,” Olivia returned.

               The two women smiled at each other.  Had his life depended on it, Marcus wouldn’t have been able to say if the smiles were real or not.

               “Mamá, what’s benzos?” Luis insisted.

               Olivia graced Marcus with another glare. 

               He explained, “Uncle Tomás was a bit nervous about going to the doctor today, so he had to take some special medicine to help him to stay calm.”

               “Oh,” Luis replied, satisfied.  “That makes sense.  ‘Cuz he didn’t want to take the tests.”

               “Luis,” said his mother, “Start clearing the table, please.”

               “Mamá…!”

               “Luis.”

               The utterance of his name in that particular tone was enough to make Luis spring into action.  He began stacking empty bowls with ear-smarting crashes of ceramic on ceramic.

               “You know what I can’t get over?” Marcus said to Olivia.  “A person getting to the age of thirty-four without ever visiting a doctor.  Your brother must have been the healthiest person on the planet.”

               “ _Por favor_ ,” Olivia said.  “Who?”

               “Tomás.”

               “Who told you that he’s never been to the doctor?”

               “Tomás did.”

               “He’s been to the doctor.  At least, when we were kids.  He even broke his arm once.”

               Marcus feigned a lot less interest than he had.  “When did that happen?”

               “When he was seven, I think.  Not long before my parents separated.  I remember the cast. I drew flowers all over it.”

               “How did it get broken—“

               The entire subject was dropped then, for Tomás had returned from the bathroom.  He was a tad pale but otherwise seemed okay.  He squeezed back in on Mouse’s other side. 

               “Okay, Tomásito?” Olivia asked.

               Tomás nodded.  “ _Si, hermana_ , I’m sorry.”

               “Just eat your cake,” Olivia said, a bit gruff.

               Tomás picked up his fork.  As he did, his eyes passed over Mouse’s hands and paused there for a second.  His eyes narrowed.  He said nothing until they were in the elevator heading down to the ground floor of Olivia’s apartment, the three of them, with plastic tubs of leftovers in hand.

               “Mouse, what did you do?” he demanded.


	6. Tomás

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the bathroom, he collapsed on the toilet seat and, for the first time since all this had begun, he experienced a novel emotion towards the God who had chosen him for this. 
> 
> Anger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay; work has seriously interfered with my fanfic writing schedule!  
> And guess what? It turns out this fic will have EIGHT chapters.

 

Tomás

 

               

                It was becoming the story of his life:  He remembered things, and yet he didn’t.

                Peering back into the haze of the past two days, Tomás spotted a cluster of rocky moments where he’d nearly run aground—Gut-Clenching Fear, Normal Weird, Entirely New Weird, and Desperate Anger, among others.  Oh, he’d made more melodramas than a _luchador_.

                He remembered going to the clinic.  He recalled being very talkative, and Marcus being quite entertained.  He recalled that Marcus had sung to him, at his request.  And he’d gone in the machine, in and out.  Just like that, and God knew it wasn’t necessary, except that it was.  And it was all very odd, because Tomás was well aware that he’d been swimming for his very life, and still the sharp edges of all those moments were slipping away like his brain couldn’t get any purchase on them.

                Perhaps the oddest thing yet was sitting around a table with Olivia, Luis, Marcus and Mouse, trying to act normal in a situation that was, by definition, abnormal.  He was smiling and he was eating menudo that his sister had made while remembering that, the day before, he’d chased a teenager into a yogurt shop and chatted with a demon in his head, and he would undoubtedly do so again very soon.  When it all got too weird and he felt like he was stepping outside himself and watching from afar, he recited his mantra.

_This is what you will have_ , he told himself, again and again.  _It is your life, and it is not that bad_.  _Que sera, sera.  What will be… will be_. 

                Even so, it was pretty damn hard to accept when God sent him waking visions in the middle of dinner.  The drug had worn off, so Tomás was able to receive the horror with hyper-clarity. 

                Everything was mundane; and then he blinked and his sweet Luis was on fire, like the children in the yogurt shop but so much worse.  One second Luis was in the midst of lifting a spoon to his mouth, and then he had no eyes.  His skin was blackened and charred.  Flames consumed his entire face.  There was no indication of pain in his demeanour, which somehow made it more horrific.  Without his eyes, Luis could only express a sort of forlorn desolation at his separation from God’s grace.

                A fiery crow sat in the centre of the table.  Its feathers were supernaturally long, blazing black and dripping flame.  It opened its beak and cawed the words:  “ _On horí_.  He is burning.  Burning.  _Quemando_.  He is burning—”

                Somehow Tomás managed not to scream.  He silently told the dreadful bird to go back to hell, or possibly to heaven if that was its provenance.  Either way, he required its absence, and he refused to look at his nephew.

                “… _tres leches_ cake for dessert, isn’t that right, Tomás?”

                That was Marcus.  Speaking to him.

                Tomás tore his eyes away from the thing happening on the table and turned to Marcus, who was speaking at him with deliberate understanding.  He summoned his courage and checked again.  A platter of garnishes…glasses, bowls… no bird. 

                He didn’t dare look at Luis.

                “Tres leches,” he intoned, like the most apathetic of Sunday church-goers mouthing the words of the liturgy.  “That’s right.”

                He was upsetting things; he had to remember normal.  Normal was picking up his spoon, seeing his hand shaking.  A cold sweat settling over him in a dark wave, urging him down.  Clutching his spoon, swallowing hard, willing himself not to pass out.  _Que sera sera sera sera_ … he recited in his mind, clinging to disintegrated-words-turned-sounds, _que sera, que sera_ , his talisman against thinking.

                The next several minutes were all a struggle to take a few more bites.  He had been enjoying the menudo before this, savouring the mixture of heat and tang and rich, meaty flavour.  He almost managed to finish the bowl, leaving just a little bit in the bottom.  But then a slab of cake the size of Texas was placed in front of him.  He fought down a few forkfuls of it, and a wash of saliva filled the corners of his mouth.  He stood up in a rush to get away before the worst happened.

                “So sorry, excuse me…” Just before he left the room, his eyes caught Luis’s.  They were wide and uncomprehending but whole.

                In the bathroom, he collapsed on the toilet seat and, for the first time since all this had begun, he experienced a novel emotion towards the God who had chosen him for this. 

                Anger. 

                Throughout the past year he’d done his best to remain grateful for having been chosen.  While he might have privately despaired, he’d never turned any resentment towards his Lord God.  He was blessed.  At least, that was his official line. 

                But now God was sending him excessive and unnecessary warnings at the most impossible and inopportune times—and was his most holy and divine Lord now denying him time for eating or necessary intermissions for health care and family connections?  What was next?  Refusing him bathroom breaks and getting dressed in the morning?  Was he meant to wander the streets naked and stinking like the hermits of ancient times?  Did the Lord begrudge him those minutes spent with other beings _so much_ that He had to send this sort of incentive, along with a threat to someone whom Tomás loved?  Tomás had worked hard to convince himself that maybe, just maybe, God cared a little about his well-being, but now this—this felt like deliberate cruelty.

                “Why?” he muttered. “What did I do that was so wrong?”

                Right on his heels as usual, Marcus arrived in the bathroom, quick to offer succour.  Tomás wished he didn’t need that so much, even if Marcus didn’t mind giving it.  Pretty soon God would be forcing him to abandon everyone he loved, to exploit them and wrong them and then reject them.

                “I’m not going to throw up,” he vowed to Marcus.  “I’m not.” 

                It was a pretty sad state of things when a person was forced to treat keeping food in their stomach as rebellion, yet he truly imagined that God would like to see him being sick.  His kneeling to eject Olivia’s love would signify a ceremonial acceptance of all that God had laid out for him.  He was fighting a battle against God’s will right now, right here on the toilet seat. 

                He was, quite possibly, losing his mind.

                He cradled his stomach and fought the overwhelming urge to heave.  “Do you think God hates me?” he asked, voicing his worst thought.

                Marcus looked at him like he pitied him.  _Si_ , he probably did pity him.     

                “Oh, Tomás, no,” he answered readily.  “I think this is what God’s love looks like.  I think He loves you a whole helluva lot… probably way too much.” 

                “That’s… interesting,” Tomás managed.

                Marcus urged, “Think about it.  He’s capable of love, sure, but He’s not like us.  His love isn’t anything soft, or easy.  He had to become one of us so He could experience what it was like to love in the human way, but it’s been a long time since then.  A blink for Him, but still… I wonder if He even remembers what it was like.”

                So Marcus had found a way to make things better yet again.  Just like that, the anger drained from Tomás.  God had brought Marcus and Tomás together and then, later, He had made Marcus come back even after Tomás had driven Marcus away.  He was capable of caring for Tomás at least that much.  And if Marcus was right… well, then, Tomás could feel pity for God, who wanted to share Himself with His human children but didn’t know how.

                Soon after the anger disappeared, so did the nausea.  Tomás was able to go out and resume his charade of semi-normalcy… but then he spotted the blood on Mouse’s hand, and all the anger that he’d been unable to vent was resurrected and channelled in Mouse’s direction. 

                Tomás suspected that he was not very good company from that point forward, and that was just another chunk to add to the cairn of guilt that he was building, day by day, stone by stone.  Still, Olivia seemed happy enough with how the evening had gone, or at least she was doing a good job of pretending.  Families did have to pretend with each other now and then, for their better health, did they not?  She packed up enough leftovers for a week for them to take back to the hotel fridge, and Tomás was honestly looking forward to eating them.

                In the tight entranceway to her apartment he offered, “Livvy… thank you.”

                “You’re welcome, little brother.”  Olivia gently touched Tomás’s torn mouth.  She’d taken in the lip earlier with a tight expression of disapproval, without saying anything about it.  It was a good thing she hadn’t seen the rest of him.  He’d fallen hard outside the yogurt shop and had the scabby knees to go with the busted lip.  “Try to not to walk into a wall on the way back.”

                “I’ll do my best.” 

                “And do tell Marcus to watch his language around Luis.”

                Tomás blinked at her.  “Okay.”  He turned to Marcus. “What did you say?”

                “Nothing,” Marcus said, looking innocent.

                They all said goodnight, and then the three of them walked down the hall in a pregnant silence.

                Once they were safely in the elevator, Tomás demanded, “Mouse, what did you do?” 

                “I don’t answer to you,” Mouse replied coolly.

                “But you do answer to God.”

                “Speak for him now, do you?”

                For the first time in… _ever_ … Tomas was primed to challenge Mouse.  He was filled with outrage on behalf of the fragile Amelia, who surely did not deserve what was happening to her.  And she might already be dead, given the way that Mouse liked to operate. 

                “I don’t have to,” he replied coldly.  “There’s a few rules about these things, written down in a book.  You might have heard of it.”  Mouse flushed a dusky purple colour, and Tomas pushed, “We can save her.  I thought that was what we do.”

                “And what about her teacher?” Mouse shot back.

                Tomás faltered, “Her… teacher?”

                “Her science teacher.  His name is Errol Horvath and he’s an integrated demon.”

                “We can save him too.”

                “Is he still alive?” Marcus asked.

                Mouse rounded on him.  “I don’t just wander around killing people at random.”

                Marcus did not back down.  “Is. He. Alive.”

                “Yes!”

                “Then why do you have blood on you?”

                Mouse was caught unprepared.  She turned her gaze down at her hands.  “Damn.”

                The elevator dinged and the doors opened.  They walked the five minutes back to their suite in silence, casually navigating the sidewalk.  Strangers, ordinary people, streamed by on both sides of Tomás and he marvelled at the fact that they were going about their lives without awareness of the presence of demons and possession—or even of God.  Such were the very foundation of his existence, and they all meant little or nothing within the reality that surrounded him.

                In their rooms, Mouse did not speak at first.  While Tomás and Marcus waited, she poured herself a whiskey.  Tomás put the leftovers in the fridge and took a couple of pills.  Then, without being prompted, Mouse resumed her story. 

                “So I went to the school.  I infiltrated the cafeteria staff and put holy water in the coffee and the orange drink.  And I watched.” 

                “That was risky,” Tomas observed.  “What if they’d all been possessed?”

                She raised her chin, glaring at Tomás.  “I found out we’re dealing with one integrated demon and one possessed kid.  And I have the name and address of the teacher.  I suggest we go sooner rather than later if you want a crack at him.”

                “What about the blood?” Marcus insisted.

                “The two of them came at me in the parking lot.  I gave the girl a bloody nose.”

                Marcus and Tomás swapped alarmed faces.  Of course Mouse was entitled to protect herself, but Tomás cringed at the idea of a strange woman punching a student in the parking lot of the school; he prayed that there were no surveillance cameras.  These days, schools were extremely careful about the security of their students and took all manner of precautions to ensure their safe return to their families, including some sophisticated technology.  The last thing they needed was Mouse getting into official trouble for assaulting a sixteen-year-old girl.  That the girl had attacked her first was irrelevant. 

                Something occurred to Tomás. “I don’t understand why they were all on fire.”  Unwanted, his brain showed him a snapshot of Luis from earlier, and he shivered. 

                “Hmm?” Marcus said.  “The children?”

                “In the yogurt shop.  They were all on fire but, if Mouse is right, they weren’t all possessed.”

                Marcus considered.  “What does fire mean?” he mused aloud.  “It’s purification, yeah?”

                “Sometimes it’s a sign,” Mouse contributed.  “A warning.”

                The shiver expanded to a deep chill.  Tomás closed his eyes and chanted to himself until the panic receded.  Sometimes a cigar was just a cigar, Freud had, quite sensibly, reminded those who wanted to see meaning in every little image their dreams showed to them.  And sometimes an echo had to be just an echo.  Leftover bits of messages overlaid onto present moments equalled Luis on fire.  The warning was for the children from Mount Ashford.  It didn’t have to mean anything with respect to Luis.

                Mouse added, “I think that science teacher is up to something.  Maybe he’s trying to tempt as many of the kids to possession as he can.  They’re all in the science club and no doubt he has interactions with them.  Who knows what he’s doing to them.”

                “All right,” Marcus sighed.  “I agree with Mouse, we should go to the teacher’s home now.”

 

 

 

 

                The science teacher, Errol Horvath, was a single man, living alone in a small, red-brick and stucco bungalow with a gabled roof, much like every other house on his street.  His front lawn, though, was the one on the block that hadn’t been mowed in a long time, the one that his neighbours would be perpetually complaining about.  His car, an older Hyundai Elantra, sat unwashed in the driveway.  There was a general unkemptness about the entire place. 

                Mouse, Marcus and Tomás sat in the truck, in the dark, watching.  There were yellow curtains completely covering a large picture window in the front of the house.  Aside from the flickering light of a TV behind the curtains, there was no apparent activity. 

                Their track record with integrated demons thus far was mixed, mainly because Mouse tended to take matters to a terminal outcome sooner rather than later.  They had only encountered a handful of the integrated to begin with, and Tomás had let her take the lead in their work as a duo.  A couple of times he had tried to protest but he’d been shut down in a hurry.  In other cases, though, he’d found a metaphysical hook, a way to engage the soul successfully even as Mouse and Marcus put intense physical pressure on the demon in the physical realm.  He’d come to understand that the integrated soul needed to be fully empowered to detach themselves from the demon, and while they had to find that strength in themselves, Tomás had a critical part to play in helping them find it.

                “So?” Marcus said.

                “So we go in and get him,” Mouse said. 

                “And where do we take him?” Marcus wanted to know.  “This could take a while and it needs to be somewhere no one will hear anything or stumble in on us.”

                “I have a place in mind,” Mouse said.

                “ _Where_?”

                She favoured Marcus with an unfriendly stare.  “If you must know, it’s an old factory building.  No one’s been there for years, but it’s safe enough.”

                “All right, then,” Marcus agreed.

                Exiting the truck, they crept around to the back door of the house.  A security light on a sensor snapped on, illuminating the entire back yard, and Tomás winced, trusting that Horvath would put it down to a cat or dog or raccoon passing through.  Mouse was ready with her lock pick, but when she turned the knob, she found that the door was unlocked.  She simply opened it and stepped onto the landing, with Marcus and Tomás close behind.

                The instant that Tomás entered the house, his soul was plunged in a miasma of evil.  It sank into his bones, made his hackles rise.  He was amazed not to see his breath fogging around him.  And there was a smell.  Something unclean.  He held his sleeve up under his nose to black out the stink.  The malevolence in the house was tangible to him, an oily something on the back of his tongue, but he saw no sign that Marcus or Mouse noticed anything.

                It was a short few steps up into the dim, silent kitchen.  The only light was emitted by the stove console.  They could hear the sound of some police procedural show projected from the living room, two experts arguing about the interpretation of some piece of forensic evidence.  Marcus and Mouse began gesturing, signalling to each other.  It made no sense to Tomás.  He heard the sound of creaking from the living room, someone shifting in a chair with noisy springs. 

                Tomás took a step towards the living room.  Marcus hissed to catch his attention and began waving frantically at him.  Mouse gestured for him to come closer to her.  It was a clear command.  Tomás shook his head at her. 

                He turned and walked into the living room.

                The man was sprawled in an easy chair, wearing a pair of shorts and an undershirt, and he was holding the TV remote loosely in his hand.  He was around forty, with an expanding belly and greasy hair.  It did not appear that his occupant cared much for hygiene.  The remains of a meal were sitting on the nearby ottoman, and there was grease smeared on his face.  The man Horvath appeared to have been once obsessed with war memorabilia.  There was a shelf filled with figurines, another full of books.  Both were covered with a thick layer of dust.

                “Welcome,” Horvath greeted Tomás.  His voice was smug and cold, much like Angela Rance’s had been when she was integrated.  “I’ve been waiting for you.  You might as well tell your friends to stop lurking in the kitchen and come in here.”

                “You’ve been waiting for me?” Tomás said, mostly to stall while Mouse and Marcus did whatever they were going to do.

                “You are Tomás Ortega.”  His eyes flicked to the space behind Tomás.  “And there is Marcus Keane, and the Churchmouse, of course.  Which means that I rate God’s special attention.  What more could a child of Lucifer want?”

                Marcus and Mouse must have followed him in, willingly or not.  Tomás could hear them as they began chanting prayers.  Mouse would have her gun close at hand, and probably several needles filled with holy water stashed nearby.  They would keep up the prayer while Tomás attempted to make contact with the soul trapped somewhere inside Horvath.  This may not have unfolded as they would have chosen but they still had his back.

                “You can leave this body now,” Tomás proposed.  “Make it easy on yourself.”

                Horvath rose to his feet, pushing up out of the armchair.  Tomás stood his ground, although the demon wound up standing no more than two feet away from him.  That close, Tomás could smell him, and it was not pleasant. 

                “I think you’re going to have to try harder than that,” said Horvath. 

                “You will leave this child of God.”  It was a statement of what would happen, not an invitation.  When Tomás spoke these words, he knew with absolute certainty that they were true, although he didn’t know how or why he knew.  He had no need to raise his voice. 

                “Errol Horvath, a child of God?  Oh, no.  Errol was always an especially robust example of human corruption.  There was a reason why we chose each other.”

                “Why don’t you tell me about it?” Tomás prompted.

                “No, I have you in my house, I think I’m entitled to a bit of a demonstration.  Put on your show for me.”

                “Tomás—“ Marcus started to say, probably to warn him.  The demon seemed rather too eager.

                Tomás dove into the demon’s inner scape.

                It was the church he had visited previously with Amelia-Vaasa in the yogurt shop—dirty, broken down, decaying.  The roof was partially open to the sky, which was roiling with black clouds.  He heard wind and thunder pressing against the rotting timbers.  Numerous birds had flown in and roosted in the rafters.  There were crows and ravens and other black things with ragged wings perched all around, and a dread that at any moment all of it might be coming down on his head.  The oily, fetid smell of Horvath’s house enveloped him, pressing in on his nostrils.

                The man in front of him was dressed as a priest, wearing the full vestments for mass:  white alb, green and gold stole and a full chasuble.  Tomás did not know the face, but he recognized the demon in him as the same one that now inhabited Errol Horvath.  He didn’t know how he could recognize it, but it didn’t concern him.

                Looking down at himself, Tomás saw that he was wearing a white surplice over a black cassock.  He seemed to be an altar boy.

                “Beautiful as an angel,” the demon breathed.  “We have special treats for angels here, do you want to see, Errol?”

                With a start, Tomás realized that he was Errol Horvath as a young boy. “No,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut.

                “Look at me,” the priest commanded.  “Errol, look at me.  See what I have for you.”

                Something compelled Errol-Tomás to open his eyes, even thought he knew that he didn’t want to.  He saw a Terrible Thing jutting out of the priest’s robes, far beyond the proportions of any natural-sized human member, misshapen and hideous.  It was a monstrosity borne of a child’s horror and trauma.

                “No!” Tomás shouted, pressing his hands over his face.  He, as the child Horvath, knew that there was no running away, no escaping.  The monster would, and did, catch him.  It did horrific things to him, to his body, in the name of love.  From that point onwards, his understanding of love was only, ever, that.

                The church fell away abruptly and he was in a high school classroom.  It could have been any school in any place.  The room built for teaching science, equipped with demonstration tables, sinks, water and gas connections, and cabinets full of lab equipment.  It was his classroom, but he was the only one in it, aside from Mr. Horvath.  He’d heard rumours about Mr. Horvath, and now he was trapped in a room with him.

                Tomás was sitting on a stool at one of the tall desks, his hands clutching his knees.  The man approached him, whispering compliments and endearments.  He always wore the same, hideous polyester dress pants and a sweater and his hair was slicked back, his breath sour with coffee and hunger. 

                “You’re one of my best students,” Horvath crooned.  “Did you know that?”

                “No,” Tomás said in a frightened, child’s voice.

“I like to give special lessons to my best students, to teach you just how beautiful nature can be.  Will you let me show you?”

                “Okay, but my mom’s coming to pick me up soon.”

                “That’s okay.  It won’t take long, and just think how important it is to your parents that you get good grades.  This will get you an A for sure.”

                The teacher put his hand on the student’s leg, high up, above the knee.

                “Please, no,” Tomás whimpered, as the student.  His pleading availed him nothing.

                The vision wasn’t complete but he flung himself out of the inner scape of the Errol Horvath, opened his eyes.  He was on his knees on the floor of Horvath’s living room.  Horvath was standing over him, grinning in a most unwholesome way. 

                “You’re a little old for me,” he purred, reaching down towards Tomás’s face.  “But perhaps I could make an exception.  You cry so pretty.”

                Behind him, Tomás sensed some motion from Mouse and Marcus. He tore himself away from Horvath, turning to see them plastered against the wall, crumpled like they’d been tossed there.  The demon had probably exerted its power while Tomás was in its mind.  Marcus was shaking his head, visibly trying to steady himself, to get up.  Mouse was moving weakly.  She seemed too dazed to get up just yet, but Tomás saw her brushing at the place inside her jacket where she kept her gun.  She didn’t seem able to get a grip on anything.

                “Never mind them!” the demon growled.  “Pay attention to me, lovely.”

                “What have you done?” Tomás breathed.  “What did you do?”

                “To your friends?  They were like flies buzzing around.  I swatted them.”

                “No, to the children.  All those children… ”

                The children who had been on fire.  If Tomás had gone to the school, how many more of them would he have seen like that?  Dozens?  Hundreds?  All of them with souls in danger, vulnerable to a foul thing of hell whispering in their ears.

                “To the _children_?” Horvath spat, his tone a caricature of moral outrage.  “Oh, suffer the little children!  Dirty creatures, always watching, watching with their little glass eyes.  Always judging.  They’re supposed to be innocent but they’re not.  I just showed them their true selves.”

                “They _are_ innocent.”

                “Read your Augustine, priest.  Or maybe just read your Freud.  They’re human beings.  All of you messy, oozing, disgusting beasts.  You’re better off without any of it.  Be glad God’s castrated you… better that than spreading your filth around.”

                “If we’re so filthy,” Tomás said, “Why do you want to be like us?  Why do you fight so hard to get inside our bodies and stay there?”

                Maybe the demon was actually taken aback by this argument, for he didn’t answer for several seconds.  Maybe there was some part of Errol Horvath within, howling to be heard, slowing down the demon’s responses.  But then it said, “I have a vocation just like you, priest.  I’m willing to sacrifice, to show you humans for what you really are.”

                “You made Horvath into what he is.”

                “You wouldn’t say that if you saw how many children he’s corrupted.  He never needed my help, you know.  He’s going to burn.  But he was always going to burn.  Look at your friend, Marcus.”  Horvath gestured towards the wall.  “He agrees with me.”

                Tomas turned slightly.  Marcus was on his feet, bracing himself with a hand.  Marcus said, “Stop arguing with the demon, Tomás.”

                The demon taunted, “Your teacher would send our friend Errol straight to hell… wouldn’t you, Marcus?”

                Marcus merely raised his crucifix.  He recited, “The power of Christ compels you.” He took a step closer to the demon.  “The power of God compels you.”  And another.  “The power of Christ compels you.”  And another, until he was standing next to Tomás.

                Tomás insisted, “God is merciful.”

                The demon roared his laughter.  “You’re no better than one of those children, always trying to forgive the ones who abuse them.  Stupid creatures.  I don’t forgive my abuser.  Only humans are that stupid.  Just look at you, trying to make excuses for your God while he tortures you.”

                “I’m not being tortured by God.”

                “Oh, and what has he done to you just in the last few hours?”

                “God loves me.”

                “Then his love is poison.  Marcus had the right idea.  He blew his abuser’s head off.”

                “That was my greatest sin,” Marcus said, obviously forgetting his own admonishment to Tomás just moments ago.  “And my greatest regret.”

                “Please!  You knew what you had to do the moment you picked up that gun.  Such a typical human.  Do the necessary thing, then agonize about it so you can be morally superior.  And then you let the Church pick up where daddy left off for the next forty years, so you can pretend you’re doing penance.”  The demon stared down Marcus with contempt.

                “All right, mate,” Marcus replied.  “I’m pathetic.  But you’re worse.” 

                He jammed one of Mouse’s holy water needles, which he had disguised in his other hand, into the creature’s neck.

                The demon screamed, a howl that Tomás felt all the way to the bottom of his soul.  Black ichor began pouring from his eyes and mouth and it writhed as though in agony.  It would not be enough to kill the demon, but it would certainly weaken it.  Horvath reached up with a hand that was tremoring violently and pulled the needle from his neck. 

                Tomás knew what he had to do, although it was the last thing he wanted.  He told Marcus, “Don’t let her kill him.”

                “Tomás, what—“

                He leaped back into the inner scape.

                Again he was in the church, which he now realized was a real place, and that it had been Errol Horvath’s church when he was a boy.  The boy Errol was there, standing in front of Tomás now.  He was naked except for his white robe, which was plastered to his body with blood and muck.  His eyes were bleeding the same black goo as in the physical plane.

                “Do you repent?” Tomás asked him.

                “I’m not sorry!” Errol screamed at Tomás.  “I’m not!”

                “Do you repent?”

                “I will not repent!”

                “God still loves you.”

                “You’re a fool!” the boy howled.  “Let God violate your body over and over.  Let him mess with your head until you go insane!”

                Tomás touched the boy on the forehead.  He erupted with purifying fire.  “Stop, stop!” he screamed.  “Don’t… it hurts!”

                “I’m sorry,” Tomás whispered.

                The boy Errol screamed and howled, wailing sounds that could never have been produced by a human throat, and scowling with hatred at Tomás.  His formerly white surplice also went up, curling and dissolving like immolating paper.  The walls of the church caught too.  All the birds rose from their various perches, screeching and complaining as they made their escape.

                The noise was hideous to hear but Tomás did not cover his ears.  He remained, beholding Errol as his soul burned clean, determined not to deny him the solace of a human gaze at the very end.

                Abruptly, the fire that had been burning Errol Horvath went out—although the church continued to burn—and a small, fourteen-year-old boy stared at Tomás.  He was ordinary.  He had not yet discovered the attractions of sex.  He still loved playing with model cars and his chemistry set.  And he loved serving at mass because everything was so beautiful there, solemn and predictable and uncontaminated by disappointment.  Not like home, where Mom drank and Dad ignored him.  He thought maybe he’d even like to be a priest someday.

                “I’m sorry!” he whimpered.  He cried tears of pure, saline regret. 

                Tomás touched him again, tracing the sign of the cross on his forehead as he whispered the words of the last rites.  “ _Per istam sanctam unctionem et suam piissimam misercordiam adiuvet te dominus gratia spiritus sanct, ut a peccatis liberatum te salvet atque propitious alleviet._ ”

                “Tomás!  Wake up, damn you!”

                His eyes snapped open.  He was lying flat on Horvath’s living room floor.  Horvaths’s body lay beside him, smoldering, dead eyes open and staring at him.  Labouring onto his knees, he saw that the curtains had caught on fire and flames were licking up towards the ceiling.  There was no stopping it.

                Mouse and Marcus each grabbed one of his arms and hoisted him upright.  “We have to go,” Mouse said.  There was a bloody patch on her forehead where she must have struck the wall, or been struck by it.  “Now!”

                His legs didn’t want to hold him, so they half-dragged, half-carried him to the truck.  By that time, flames had consumed the curtains and were could be seen filling the entire living room from outside the house.  They wasted no time in getting away.  Mouse made an anonymous call to 911 while Marcus drove.

                Tomás was able to more or less walk on his own power up to their hotel room, with Mouse and Marcus spotting him.  He could feel the next migraine lurking around his skull, though.  He had read that if he took one of the pills early enough, it could prevent the attack.

                “What happened to ‘we’re not setting anyone on fire’?” Mouse groused, letting Tomás flop down onto his bed.  Tomás thought about mentioning that he had said they wouldn’t be setting the school on fire, and didn’t.  His entire body was heavy with grief, or melancholy, he wasn’t sure which.  He’d been crying, off and on, since they left Horvath’s house. 

                Marcus studied him and said, “Tell me you aren’t crying for that monster.”

                “I think I need one of those migraine pills, please.”

                “I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Mouse observed.  “But you’ve been giving a lot of orders lately.”  She went to the kitchenette, pulled out her bottle of whiskey.

                “It’s fine,” Marcus returned.  “He said please.”  He went to his duffle and dug out one of the pill bottles.  He shook out one of the Sumatriptan and fetched a glass of water, then brought both to Tomás.

                “Horvath was sexually abused by his priest,” Tomás said.  He downed the pill and emptied the water glass.  “When he was fourteen.  A priest who was possessed by the same demon who later possessed him.  He was a victim too.”

                “That’s a very progressive sentiment,” Marcus retorted.  He dropped down onto the bed beside Tomás, rubbing his forehead and neck.  He laid back against his pillows.  He looked extremely tired.  “But there are plenty of people who are abused who don’t turn into abusers.”

                Tomás could imagine that this was a subject that Marcus took rather personally, but he was not prepared to give way just yet.  “He repented at the end.”

                “So that makes it okay then?”

                “I don’t know,” Tomás said.  “I only know that God’s grace—”

                “You would forgive him for molesting all those children.”

                “God does the forgiving—“

                “Stop,” Mouse interjected.  “Just… stop.  Tomás, what the hell happened in there?”

                “What do you mean?”

                “I mean, you just acted like you were a one-man wrecking crew.  You could have gotten us all killed.”

                Tomás doubted that he could say anything to make it better.  He had acted under another authority, one that was not his own.  He was distressed by what had happened, but he would not take full responsibility for it.  “I didn’t know that I was going to do that.”

                “You didn’t know.”

                “No, I just… it just happened.  I couldn’t stop it.”

                Mouse considered him.  “You keep saying that,” she said.  “But I’m not sure it’s true.”

                Marcus sat up sharply and barked, “Mouse, give it a rest.”

                She turned her back, pouring herself the drink she had been intending to have.  Tossing it down, she resumed, “Okay, so you walked in, you went into his head, and then…?”

                Tomás thought back.  “First he showed me what happened when Horvath was a boy, or he started to.  I didn’t want to see it all so I stopped it.  That was the part of the conversation you saw.  Marcus stuck him with the needle, and that was when I went back in.  I saw Horvath as a teenaged boy, all covered in dirt and blood.  I touched him.”

                “You touched him.”

                “Yes.  In—inside, I mean.”

                “Okay.”

                “And then he burst into flames.  I think the demon was destroyed first because then he was just a sad, hurt little boy.  He said he was sorry—and then you two were yelling at me to get up and the room was on fire.”

                Mouse folded her arms.  She said, “Do you want to know what we saw?”

                Tomás wasn’t sure that he did, but he said, “Yes?”

                “Everything happened like you say, but after Marcus stabbed Horvath, you set him on fire just by touching him.”

                Tomás looked to Marcus; Marcus nodded confirmation.

                “Then you just fell on the floor unconscious while Horvath was running around the living room screaming and spreading the fire around.  Marcus and I had our hands full trying not to be burned alive—or let you be burned alive.”

                “Mouse, I swear to you,” Tomás said.  “I wasn’t in control of any of it.  I don’t remember making any decision to walk into that room.  Once I was there, I thought I would do… what I usually do.”

                Marcus said, “And yet you just exorcised an integrated demon with little more than a snap of your fingers.  No, actually, you did more than exorcise it.  It sounds like you erased the demon while it was still inside Horvath.  And you brought God’s judgement down on Horvath too.  He made you an instrument of his wrath, Tomás.”

                Still, all Tomás could see was the sad face of the boy who had been Horvath, an innocent child who had been destroyed.  He saw Horvath’s dead body, smoke rising from it.  He felt sick at the thought that his hands had committed murder, even if he hadn’t intended any of it.

                The pressure was building in his head.  He sent a quiet little prayer up to the god Sumatriptan, and then a prayer asking God’s forgiveness for his blasphemy.

                “I just killed a person,” he said.  “Or God did, through me.  Maybe it was God’s judgment… but what was the point of exorcising the demon then, if not to free Errol’s soul?”

                His two partners were silent.  Mouse didn’t look any happier than she had been, but at least she was letting the matter drop, for now.  Tomás knew that if things continued to unfold in this way, they would be having further discussion.  He didn’t blame her, really.  She was used to being in charge, and Tomás had been content with that up to now.  Moreover, she was good at it.  If God took that role away from her—well, her anger was understandable.    

                The pill did not let him down.  Within a half an hour he had succumbed to its siren call, and the migraine never did manifest.  He slept without any disturbance through to the next morning.

                By that time, the news was all over the media.  Errol Horvath, a science teacher in Oak Forest had apparently abused up to twenty of his students over the past decade.  Photos of his victims in various states of undress had been found in his burned out house, along with his body.  Although the fire department had yet to identify a source for the fire, the assumption was that Horvath had killed himself after setting the house ablaze.  Parents of the students of Mount Ashford were up in arms, pulling their kids from the school and calling for a full investigation.  They were deploying lawyers and doctors and therapists, getting ready to sue the school into bankruptcy.

                Tomás informed Mouse and Marcus that, after breakfast, he could lead them to Amelia, whom they still needed to exorcise.  They were picking up coffee at a Starbuck’s drive-through when Olivia called.

                “Hey,” Tomás answered.  “What’s up?”

                “Tomás,” Olivia said in a panic.  “Luis, he’s—he’s missing!”

 

 

 

 

                Tomás had known almost instantly where they had to go.  It was just a matter of locating it, which took just moments with a smartphone.

                He sat stiffly in the passenger side front seat, staring straight ahead, while Marcus drove.  “God warned me,” he said.  His entire body was numb with panic.  “It was my vision, at Olivia’s.  I thought it was just… echoes.  He showed me Luis on fire and I thought it was just an echo.”

                “It’s going to be okay,” Marcus said.

                “You don’t know that.”

                Marcus didn’t have a reply.  They both knew how demons liked to wreck things.  Demons didn’t necessarily make plans or set rational goals.  If they could destroy something, they were usually content with doing just that.  Something like a little boy with soft brown eyes and a round face. 

                A boy just like Errol had been.

                Mouse said, from the back, “It’s curious that Amelia would take Luis.  She has to know it’ll bring you to her.”

                “She must be looking for a confrontation,” Marcus theorized.

                “It doesn’t make sense, especially since she knows we already took down a demon much stronger than her.”

                “Please,” Tomás said wearily.  “Stop talking.”  Just listening to them speculate was ramping up his terror, and it was already nearly unbearable.

                The derelict church was just as Tomás had seen it in his visions, if somewhat smaller.  It was on a street just outside the city limits, and appeared to have been boarded up for some time.  The brick walls still stood fairly strong, while nearly all of the stained glass windows were broken and the wooden slats of the roof had rotted through.  An ancient, painted sign proclaimed “St. Ambrose Roman Catholic Church.  Father Anthony Talarico.  Mass at 9:00, 11:00 a.m.”  The words were so faded that they were difficult to read. 

                “Mouse, Marcus and I will go in,” Tomás said, “While you get Olivia and bring her here.”

                Mouse narrowed her eyes.  “Giving orders again?”

                “She doesn’t have a car and she doesn’t know how to get here,” Tomás pleaded.  “I don’t have time—please do this for me.”

                Mouse muttered under her breath, but she returned to the truck.

                It looked like the chains that held the doors had been blasted open.  Marcus and Tomás were able to walk in, although they had to navigate around a cluster of pews that were choking the entryway.

                There was a reek of putrefaction inside that hadn’t been present in the visions.  Also a stink of bird shit.  Parts of the nave were in shadow, but Luis and the girl, Amelia, were lit by the full daylight that was streaming in through the open roof. 

                They stood on the steps at the foot of the altar.  Luis didn’t appear harmed or restrained but Tomás knew a demon didn’t need a weapon to compel one small boy, and she could already have damaged him in ways that could be irreversible.

                “Tio,” Luis whispered, seeing him.  He strained towards Tomás, but Amelia tightened the arm that she had loosely wrapped around his throat.  He whimpered. 

                “It’s okay, _cari_ _ño_ ,” Tomás called to him.  “Nothing bad is going to happen.”

                “Hmm, that’s a rash promise,” the girl growl-hissed.  “Maybe you shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.”  She said, in a perfect facsimile of Tomás’s voice, “’I’d never miss your birthday, Luis.’ ‘I’m not leaving, Luis.’”

                “If you hurt him,” Tomás promised.  “If you touch a hair on his head—“

                “You’ll do what, priest?”

                “I’ll smite you where you stand.”

                The demon smirked at him.  “Getting a bit full of ourselves, are we?”

                “Test me and find out.”

                “Will you set me on fire like you did my sugar daddy Mr. Horvath?  I don’t think so.  Not when you want to save this sweet…”  The demon caressed Amelia’s breast.  “… sweet little body.”

                Marcus had his bible and crucifix out and was reciting the words of exorcism at high speed:  “God, whose nature is ever merciful and forgiving, accept our prayer that this servant of yours, bound by the fetters of sin, may be pardoned by your loving kindness… Holy Lord, almighty Father, everlasting God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who once and for all consigned that fallen and apostate tyrant to the flames of hell, who sent your only-begotten Son into the world to crush that roaring lion; hasten to our call for help and snatch from ruination and from the clutches of the noonday devil this human being made in your image and likeness…”

                The demon yawned.  “You’re kind of redundant now, aren’t you?” she said to him.

                “Why don’t you just go ahead and leave?” Marcus suggested, without missing a beat.  “You know how this is going to go.”

                “Hmm, maybe.  But before I go, I can do as much damage as possible.”  The demon Amelia tousled Luis’s hair.  “Isn’t that right, sweet boy?  You want to play a game with me?”

                Tomás gritted, “Don’t touch him or I’ll…”

                “You’ll do what?  You do know that the worst thing you can imagine has already been done to this piglet?  I barely had to say a word before she let me in.”

                “Get out!” Tomás thundered.  “Leave this child of God!”

                “Oh,” crowed Amelia, “I’m going.  But you know she’s never going to be the same.  Just like Mr. Horvath was never the same.  She’s going to burn just like him.  She’s already burning.  And sweet Luis… he’ll never be the same.”

                Tomás took a menacing step.  “What did you do?”

                “Nothing just yet… but knowing that the people you trust the most are not trustworthy, that’s the worst injury a child can receive.”  Amelia cocked her head.  “You know that from personal experience, right, Tomás?”

                Marcus was conspicuously silent, waiting, Tomás thought, for his response.  Tomas said, “What are you talking about, liar?”

                The demon said, “Aw, it’s so hard to remember, isn’t it?  You had to make yourself forget. Here, let me help.”

                The church dissolved.

 

 

 

                —and Tomás was sitting on the floor in the living room of their old house in Chicago.  It had been so long, he barely remembered what it looked like, but he recognized it instantly.  He was six, and he was doing one of his favourite things, playing with his Legos. 

                Papá and Mamá were in the kitchen.  They were arguing again.  He knew it, even though they were trying to keep their voices low.  He looked to Olivia.  She was sitting on the couch watching her show, but she met his look and she was scared.  They were always arguing, and then Papá would yell and say mean things.  He told Tomás he was stupid just yesterday because he had gotten a “C” in math.  It hurt a lot when Papá called him stupid.  Tomás did not think he was stupid.

                Now Mamá was yelling.  Her voice carried easily from the kitchen to the living room.  “This is what you have, Rico!  This is life and you have to learn to appreciate what you have!  If you can’t put the three of us first, then maybe you can get the hell out!”

                “You don’t know what it’s like!” Papá shouted.

                “Oh, really?  You think you’re the only one who’s had disappointments in this life?  Grow up, Rico!”

                Papá came charging out of the kitchen and accidentally stomped on a Lego.  He cursed, grabbing at his foot.  He threw the little red brick piece at the wall.  “I thought I told you to clean this up!”

                “I—I’m sorry,” squeaked six-year-old Tomás.

                “Never mind the sorries, just clean it up!”

                Papá reached down and grabbed Tomás by his skinny arm, yanking him up.  There was a snap, and terrible pain.  Tomás wailed, both from the pain and the shock of how Papá was treating him.  Papá had never hurt him like this before.

                “Christ, why can’t you act like a boy instead of snivelling like a little girl?”

                “But Papá, it hurts!” Tomás whimpered.  He clung to Papá with his other hand as Papá was trying to shake him off.

                “Just shut up and do as I tell you!”

                Tomás was thrown against the floor.  The pain was so agonizing, he threw up, and then he just couldn’t stop sobbing, even though he knew it would just make Papá more angry. 

                Then Mamá got to him and she put her arms around him.  Mamá was always gentle with him, even when he was naughty or forgot to put his toys away or daydreamed in class and got in trouble for it.

                “Rico, can’t you see his arm is broken?!”

                Papá got quiet all at once.  He stared down at Tomás, at his arm that was twisted in a funny way, and his face did something Tomás had never seen before. “Oh, no,” he whispered.  “No, no.” 

                He ran out of the house. 

                Mamá took him to see a big, scary hospital full of white rooms and people in white coats, but she said before they were taken in, “Tomásito, I need you to be quiet about how this happened, okay?  Papá feels very bad and we don’t want him getting in trouble.”

                “It hurts, Mamá.”

                “I know, baby, I know, but this is not going to happen again, I swear to you.  Remember the song Papá likes to sing?  Let’s sing that to distract us.  How does it go?  _When I was just a little boy… I asked my mother…what will I be?  Will I be pretty?  Will I be rich?  Here’s what she said to me… Que sera, sera… whatever will be, will be… the future’s not ours to see… que sera, sera_.”

                Tomás was taken into a room with bright lights.  There were strange faces around him and the light hurt his eyes.  He did not say anything about how Papá had grabbed him.  He tried not to cry, even though his arm hurt so bad, and he kept singing the song under his breath to remind himself that it was okay, it was just life, like Mamá said.  _Que sera, sera_.  He had to go in a strange machine by himself, and for several minutes he couldn’t see or hear Mamá.  That was the worst part and for several minutes he couldn’t remember any words at all. 

                He came home with a cast, and Papá was gone for days.  He came back for a little while, but then he left again.  It would be the last time that Tomás saw him.

                Two months later, Mamá put him on a plane to Mexico.  Mamá said that Papá would be waiting for him at the other end and would take care of him, and not to worry.  She said she would come to visit as soon as she could.  Tomás tried to be brave, but he broke down and begged her not to send him away.  He was sorry, so sorry for what he had done.  She held him and soothed him, but she still put him on the plane.

                There was no Papá waiting at the other end.  His _abuela_ was there, though.  Tomás didn’t recognize her at first; she had visited them only once in Chicago, when he was much smaller.  He tried to protest, saying Papá was supposed to come for him.  Finally, he gave up, and she took him home with her and showed him where he would sleep.  He cried himself to sleep that night, and many nights after that, but at some point it got better.  He would remember that this was life, this was just what he had and he had plenty to be grateful for—

 

 

 

 

 

                Tomás came back to himself in the rotting church.  Luis was standing before him with begging eyes, needing him to be strong, to take action, and all he could think or feel was being left, the sickening emptiness that had taken him, and never really went away. 

                “It’s a lie,” he gasped.

                “You know it’s not,” the demon taunted.  “It’s a memory that you forgot because it was too hard to remember.  Little Tomás, left by your mama, left by your papa.  Left by Daddy Marcus too.  No one wanted you, not really.  Now God offers you some of his bad touch and you’ll take whatever He has to give.”

                A hand laid itself on Tomás’s shoulder.  He flinched before he could take in that it was Marcus. 

                “Whatever she showed you,” Marcus said.  “It doesn’t matter.  I’m here now and so is Luis.  And we need you.”

                Tomás could not reply, consumed with the memory of all those lonely years.  _Abuela_ had loved him and he’d loved her too, desperately, but it was not enough.  How many years he’d been waiting, praying for someone to come, to fill up that emptiness.  Becoming a priest, waiting for God to speak to him, offering himself to his congregation, to the people in need of his help.  Always waiting. 

                The demon Vaasa appeared thoroughly delighted with itself.

                It said, through Amelia’s mouth, “It’s no wonder you became a priest.  Religion, last resort of the lonely, the desperate and the dying.  The sigh of the oppressed, the opium of the people, right?  Anything to make you feel like you matter.  All of you like abandoned children.”

                Marcus squeezed his shoulder, stepping in front of him.  Trying to present himself as a barrier.  “You would know about being abandoned,” he said to her.  “You’re all so caught up in feeling sorry for yourself.  Centuries of sulking, is it?” 

                Vaasa’s copper eyes trained on Marcus for several, caught moments.  Then she was back to Tomás.

                “Do you feel Him yet, priest?” she said.  “I can hear Him coming.  He’ll come down here any second and take you and you’ll be helpless, won’t you?  You’re just his pretty little hand puppet.”

                Marcus tried to close the distance between Vaasa and himself.  He recited in his most compelling tones, “Son of the morning, banished from grace, you are forgiven.  Profane thing, ashes on the earth, you are redeemed.  Outcast, fallen angel, you are loved.”

                Amelia-Vaasa evaded him, dragging Luis with her.  She hissed, “He’ll kick me out but I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing I was right.  There’s no difference between what I do to this sweet piglet and what he’s doing to your beautiful body.  You’re dying too, just a bit more slowly, and He doesn’t care.  All He cares is that he can use you.”

                Tomás shook his head, denying it, but he couldn’t get so far as uttering the word.

                “Just give Daddy everything, Tomás.  You know you want to.”

                “It’s time for you to go, Vaasa,” Marcus declared.  “Tomás, don’t listen to her.”

                “Open up for Daddy, Tomás.”

                Not very far away and yet at a great distance, Tomás thought he heard a hum, a sound like bells and fingernails scratching, at the same time.  Something was tapping on his mind, demanding an invitation.  

                He closed his eyes and opened himself wide.

 


	7. Marcus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had an inkling that today was the first verse in a whole new chapter of the Book of Tomás, that God had planned it all along, and that Marcus was here to ensure that Tomás didn’t shatter, that he kept going so God could continue to use him to win His battles. Marcus didn’t like this arrangement, not one bit. He was not going to attend to Tomás, soothe him and get him on his feet again just so God could march him to his next demonic engagement. He was not going to be God’s enabler.

 

 

 

 

                “Just give Daddy everything, Tomás.  You know you want to.”

                Marcus had been goaded more than a few times by demons who thought they were very clever in drawing an analogy between his abusive father and his God.  And, fair enough, that connection certainly resonated for him.  He’d even called God a bully himself, more than once.  Hearing the vile words spoken now was not much of a departure, and yet—

                 “Open up for Daddy, Tomás.” 

                —what the bloody hell was it supposed to mean?

                The demon wearing Amelia had shown Tomás something fairly devastating if his paralyzed state was any indication.  Marcus had reminded Tomás not to pay attention—and Tomás was no longer a neophyte, he should have known better—but Tomás didn’t seem to be hearing him. 

                “Tomás,” Marcus muttered.  He got no response, not even a twitch of reaction.  Tomás was standing just in front of him, his face angled away from Marcus.  Marcus tried again, a bit louder:  “Tomás!”

                Nothing.

                At this juncture, Marcus could have ignored Tomás and just proceeded with the exorcism as he had done alone, a thousand times before.  But this was no ordinary exorcism.  A demon kidnapping a very specific child, not for some straightforward act of evil but as an act in some bigger production?  What sort of tragedy was the demon authoring?  The kidnapping had brought Tomás to him, not exactly a strong move for any demon these days.  It seemed that Vaasa wanted something else from this and was content to lose Amelia’s soul in the bargain. 

                Now, there was— _something—_ yanking on Marcus’s nervous system.  A whisper, a mere suggestion.  He took inventory of the space around him, perceived that the air and the light had taken on a strange, oppressive colour.  A heaviness had draped itself over the world.  Marcus didn’t recall seeing any clouds when they’d driven up to the church but, all at once, the sky seemed to have turned the very darkest blue, verging on black.  His hackles were standing at attention. 

                The entire universe seemed to be holding its breath.

                All the birds in the rotten rafters exploded into the air suddenly, shrieking in angry outrage.  At the same time, a blast of wind blew the doors to the church back, banging them hard against the walls.  It had the percussive impact of a bomb going off. 

                Marcus recoiled and looked instinctively to the demon, expecting that it was the cause.  When demons were around, all of nature rose up in protest.  He’d seen snow in the middle of summer, dogs attacking their beloved owners, water flowing backwards.  Healthy living things died and decayed in a moment. The demon, however, was staring at Tomás with a viciously pleased, anticipatory mien. 

                The tableau broke when Marcus heard a terrible crack.  It took him a second to realize that it was the sound of bones and tendons being violently forced into the wrong position.  Tomas went taut, and he made a small, choked sound, all the time remaining on his feet, like a marionette whose strings had been seized.  For several seconds he seemed to be suspended in this position.  Then he was released, his body giving way to a less stiff yet still very unnatural pose.  His head lolled to the side.    

                Then Tomás lifted his head…and he was not Tomás. 

                His eyes were no longer his eyes, blazing with an alien light.  The normally white sclera and hazel irises were consumed by a molten silver with deep hints of blue and red at the edges, not at all the copper red that Marcus had sometimes seen in people inhabited by demons.  Tiny veins of crimson traced themselves across his face, as though every vessel in his body was alit.  Tomás might as well have been dead as of that moment, for all the human essence seemed to have been stripped from him.  He was animated by an Other, an energy that crackled under his skin and held his entire body in thrall.

                It was a possession, but a possession such as Marcus had never seen—except that he had seen it _once_.  This was the thing he had witnessed in his dream, the one that God had sent to scare him into returning to Tomás.  Except that, rather than being galvanized by suffering, Tomás’s face showed nothing at all recognizable. 

And, in the dream, Marcus had only been horrified by what God was doing to Tomás.  In this particular little reality-show, he was taken by a primordial terror.  It was a perfectly natural and involuntary response, his lizard-brain reacting to something so far removed from him and so powerful that he could only utter a tiny squeak, a plea to the presence to not squash him.  There was no talking himself out of it.

                The Not-Tomás manoeuvered itself closer to the demon and the boy.  It held Tomás’s body strangely, head tilted, arms stiff, legs splayed.  The demon seemed equally and utterly enraptured by the manifestation, staring with an expression somewhere between terror and desire.  It did not move as Not-Tomás approached, merely waited as for its doom.  Its mouth fell open and some sort of word-noises began to fall out. 

                Luis, too, was gaping up at his transformed uncle.  The Not-Tomas gently detached Luis from the possessed girl, who made no attempt to stop it.  Luis was nudged in the direction of the door.  He came straight to Marcus and clung to him, burying his face against Marcus’s stomach.  Marcus clung back.  It seemed appropriate.

                The Not-Tomás then spoke to the demon, softly.  Marcus couldn’t make out the words, or even the language, but the sound of it boomed in his ears.  He and Luis both whimpered, covering them.   Marcus saw the demon-Amelia flinch.

                He had seen and felt demons leave, many times over the years.  He had grown so familiar with it that he could almost always tell when it happened.  Usually it was accompanied by some furious display of the supernatural—bodies levitating, fluids leaking, horrid voices filling the space, objects flying about, people being flung—but this time, the ambiance of malicious intent lifted from the girl like a gentle creeping of the sun over the horizon, and she dropped on the floor in a dead faint. 

                The Not-Tomás stood over her, contemplating her for a long minute as a spider would study an insect. 

                Then it turned, steering Tomás, and the metal eyes pierced Marcus with a knowledge that he remembered experiencing only once before in his life.  It was agony.  Just when Marcus was about to scream for it to stop, Tomás was wrenched up and sideways, making a gurgling noise that spoke of total physical distress.  He crumpled, falling unconscious beside the girl on the floor.

                Marcus stood rooted to the ground for several minutes, holding Luis.  Luis did not budge from his arms. 

                “Marcus?  Tomás?”

                Mouse charged through the broken doors with Olivia right behind her, and Marcus had never been so grateful for her existence as he was just then.  “Luis?!” Olivia cried out.  Luis immediately pulled away from Marcus and ran to her, sobbing.  She enfolded him in maternal comfort, weeping in her own distress and relief.

                Ever prepared, Mouse had her bag of supplies with her.  She looked over the scene, and she looked at Marcus.  Her forehead crinkled with questions.

                “It’s done,” Marcus said.  His voice was hoarse with the remnants of his recent existential terror.

                “Done,” Mouse echoed.  She glanced over at the two prone bodies.  “How?”

                “I’ll… tell you later.  Can you check on Amelia?”

                For once, Mouse didn’t protest at being given instructions.  She went directly to the girl and checked her vitals, then back to the truck to fetch a blanket and some water.  Although Marcus felt confident that the teenager would recover physically, it was not uncommon for the recently possessed to experience shock, in addition to a myriad of other symptoms that could be life-threatening.  The process of possession was very much like a disease that ravaged the body, wearing down the defences, destroying internal systems.  Very often, the victim would have immediate need of a hospital.  Part of their work as exorcists frequently included a quick triage in the aftermath of a success.

                But Marcus had no attention to spare for Amelia.  All of his energies were concentrated on Tomás.  As he knelt down next to Tomás, he wanted to hurl imprecations at the sky.  Marcus had taken Tomás to appointments, he’d coaxed him to eat and sleep and ensured that he had time with his family.  Every smile, every minute of undisturbed sleep, Marcus considered a personal victory.  And then God heedlessly took Tomás and used his body at His pleasure and in so doing drained the few precious drops of well-being that Tomás had managed to accrue. Tomás now looked every bit as ill as he had just a few days ago.  Worse, even.   

                He managed to get an arm under Tomás’s shoulders and lifted the upper half of his body, propping him up against himself.  Even with the weight he had lost, he was still a pretty solid armful.  Marcus would rather not have to carry him to the truck.  In fact, he wasn’t sure that he was even capable. 

                “Oy,” he said, patting Tomás lightly on the cheek. “Hey, beautiful.  Wanna open those eyes for me?”

                “Mmrph.”

                “Please don’t make me do all the work of getting you out of here.  My old bones can’t take it.”

                Tomas dragged his eyes half-open with a gasp of pain.  “ _Jesuchristo_ …”

                “There you are,” Marcus said, and offered a pretense of a smile.  “How do you feel?”

                “Like… God’s piñata.”

                “If you can get to the truck, we’ll go home and I’ll get you a pill.  Would you like that, luv?”

                Sorrowfully, Tomas said, “I want _all_ the pills.”  He raised a hand that was violently shaking to knuckle at his eyes; then, as memory struck, sent an agitated glance towards the entrance-way of the church, at Luis.  “Is he okay—?  Luis?”

                Olivia was several feet away from him and had her cheek pressed against her son’s head.  She didn’t react even though she should have heard him.  For now, Marcus would give her the benefit of the doubt, although he had a strong foreboding as to where this was headed. 

                “Please, is he okay,” Tomas begged.  “Marcus, is he okay?”

                “I think he’s fine,” Marcus assured him.  “C’mon, let’s get you up.”             

                While he was helping Tomas grapple with gravity, Mouse was attempting to get Amelia moving.    The girl had passed from shock to trauma, and the fact that she was now surrounded by complete strangers did not help.  Plus, this was not their usual division of labour.  Of the three of them, Tomas was the best and most practiced at distributing raw comfort; however, even if Tomas had been able, it did not escape anyone that Amelia was utterly terrified of him—and Marcus didn’t blame her, given her recent experience.  Marcus himself had all manner of methods for getting a distraught soul from a building to a vehicle, but he was preoccupied with Tomas.  So Mouse was now stuck in the position of getting Amelia to the truck.  Marcus could hear her telling Amelia, not unkindly but still rather bluntly, that if she wanted to go home, she would have to stand up and walk.  It worked, after a fashion.

                With some difficulty and some liberal swearing, Marcus fought Tomás into an upright position.  Tomás tried to help but as his body achieved a more-or-less ninety-degree angle to the floor, he uttered a whimper of pure misery.  He bent over and heaved, bringing up his breakfast—consumed a mere couple of hours ago, impossibly—onto the rotting floorboards. 

                “ _Dios mio_ ,” Tomás moaned.

                “What hurts, luv?”

                Tomás shook his head.  He heaved again, choked on whatever was caught in his throat.  This time, very little came up, but the process looked painful.  Tears of pure reaction were dripping from his eyes. 

                “Bugger all,” Marcus muttered.  “Tomás … I know this is hard…”

                “Okay,” Tomás said, hoarsely.  “It’s okay.  I can do this.”  He took one step, and then another.  He was making his slow and painful way out of the church when they passed by Olivia, who was still holding her son.  “Livvy,” Tomas whispered, reaching out to her.

                She evaded his hand. “Don’t talk to me,” she snapped.

                A parade of emotions played across Tomás’s face:  incomprehension, then horror, guilt, and then simple, uncomplicated grief.  It was painful to see. 

                Marcus said to Olivia, not bothering to censor himself, “He just saved your son.”

                Olivia shot him a glare and steered Luis away, leaving Tomás to stand there bereft.

                “It’ll be okay,” Marcus said.  “She’ll get past it.”

                “Have you met my sister?” Tomás said hollowly.

                Marcus didn’t answer, because he’d been expecting this but he had found that Olivia, while quick to anger, was also quick to forgive.  If he hadn’t been in such distress, Tomás would have known it too.

                It was a very tight fit for all of them in the truck.  As usual, Tomas wound up in the back seat, this time with Olivia and Luis.  Luis would not move from his mother’s arms, and he kept staring at Tomás as though he had never met him.  Marcus ached for Tomás, but he had his arms full in the front seat with Amelia, who alternated between histrionics and staring into a catatonic distance.  With the application of all his skills in interrogating traumatized teens, he managed to get her home address. 

                The next hour was truly wretched.  Mouse drove with stoic determination, speaking to no one.  Amelia continued to deteriorate while Olivia and Luis remained stone silent and Tomas huddled in a corner of the truck cab, not meeting anyone’s eyes.  And Marcus could do nothing, not until they had safely deposited Amelia at home.  

                At last, they pulled up in front of the girl’s house.  The moment they turned onto her street, Amelia started squirming and fighting Marcus, and by the time the truck stopped, Amelia was whining, “Let me out, let me out, let me out…!”

                Mouse wasted no time putting the truck in park and jumping out of her seat, which allowed Amelia to shoot out the driver’s side.  She landed hard on both feet on the asphalt, nearly lost her balance, and then careened towards the front door of her house, crying loudly, “Mom!  Mommy!  Mommmm!”  It was nothing Marcus hadn’t seen before, post-exorcism.  The recovery had only begun for the people who had suffered through it, but very often there was nothing that the three of them could do but make their exit, and none too gracefully sometimes. 

                Mouse hoisted herself back up into the truck and put it in gear.  “I think we better get out of here before they get a look at us,” she suggested. 

                Marcus cast one uncertain look towards the house and nodded.  Mouse peeled away at an acceleration worthy of a race car driver, but she hadn’t gone more than half a block before Marcus heard a low keening from the back seat.

                “All right, that’s it,” he spat.  “Pull over.  Pull over the truck.”

                “What, why?” Mouse challenged.

                “Just do it.  Please.”

                Mouse compressed her lips and pulled over on the side of a street.  This was the kind of neighbourhood where not much happened that wasn’t routine, and nobody drove a half-ton truck that was at least ten years old and unwashed to boot.  They could be drawing all sorts of unfavourable attention, but Marcus didn’t care.  He got out and yanked open the back door to the cab. 

                Two sets of unhappy brown eyes peered at him, uncomprehending.

                “Olivia, you and Luis come sit in the front.”

                Olivia glanced side-wise at Tomas, biting her lip.

                “Get moving!” Marcus ordered.

                She flinched, but she moved, urging Luis to climb down.  Marcus waited until they were seated again and slammed the front passenger-side door on them; he then leaped up into the back seat. 

                Tomas jerked a desolate look at him.  His face was bleached to the colour of old sheets, blue veins clearly etched on his face, neck and hands.  For a moment it was awkward, as Marcus wasn’t quite sure how best to approach him.  Then Tomas twitched in his direction.  Marcus opened his arms and Tomas simply _burrowed_.  His body was hot, perhaps feverish, juddering with raw distress.

                Marcus would own that he was clinging a bit himself.  For some reason, God had seen fit to put a depiction of this event into his head as a spur to drive him.  It had worked, too.  But he had an inkling that today was the first verse in a whole new chapter of the Book of Tomás, that God had planned it all along, and that Marcus was here to ensure that Tomás didn’t shatter, that he kept going so God could continue to use him to win His battles.  Marcus didn’t like this arrangement, not one bit.  He was not going to attend to Tomás, soothe him and get him on his feet again just so God could march him to his next demonic engagement.  He was not going to be God’s enabler.

                “It’s over,” Marcus muttered, as Mouse put the truck into the highest gear, speeding them home as quickly as she could without being reckless.  “It’s over now.”

                “Never g-going to be over,” Tomás croaked. 

                Marcus said nothing.  For most of the past forty years, he’d considered God the love of his life.  That had ended the moment he’d caught sight of Tomás with those metal eyes, and he needed to find an apt moment to go somewhere and howl his grief over that loss. 

                Bloody demons… so damned _right_ sometimes.   

                “Tomás … was that… what I thought it was?”

                A sob escaped Tomás.  “Sh-she was right, I’m—just—his puppet—“  His voice broke before he could finish. 

                “No.” 

                “Not your—best argument—“  Tomás tried out a laugh, and choked on it.  He started mumbling something under his breath, almost inaudibly.  Marcus leaned his head in close and heard:  “ _…que sera sera sera…que seraseraserasera…_ ”  For a second his heart clutched with dread, until he realized it was not prophecy, just Tomás self-soothing.  The volume rose a little, and Olivia suddenly twisted her head around to stare at Tomás.

                They pulled up in front of Olivia’s apartment building. 

                Olivia didn’t move.  They all sat in silence, waiting.  The only sound was Tomás’s harsh breathing and the continuous, ragged murmur:  “… _que sera que sera que sera sera que sera_ …”  The shaking had become ferocious and frightening, and Tomás was now clutching Marcus’s arm too, as though it were the only thing he could trust.

                “Can we pick up the pace?” Marcus asked.  It was the nicest way he could think of to order Olivia out of the car.

                Luis said in a tiny voice, “Is Uncle Tomas okay?”

                Marcus knew that whatever Olivia said or did, Luis would never disown his uncle, nor would Tomás ever want to deny his nephew anything, so he answered, as patiently as he could, “He will be, we just need to get back to our room so he can rest.”

                Olivia twisted around in the front seat.  She gave her brother her first, full consideration since the church.  “Tomás?”

                Marcus was craven enough to wish that Tomas would give her a taste of her own medicine.  Just a small taste.   

                “Livvy,” he whispered.

                She blurted, “I’m sorry… I’m sorry, I was just scared.”

                Tomás said nothing. 

                “Come up, let me take care of you.”

                Marcus held his breath.

                “No,” Tomás said hoarsely.  “Thank you.”  His fingers dug into Marcus and his throat worked. 

                Over his head, Marcus met Olivia’s eyes.  Whatever she read in them, she accepted.  She granted him a nod and said, “All right, I understand.  Tomás?”

                “Liv...”

                “Thank you for saving him.”

                “Wasn’t me,” Tomás whispered.  “He’s… he’s okay…?” 

                “Yes.  He’s okay.”

                Hearing this seemed to be the final tear in Tomás’s frayed composure.  He convulsed, beginning to dissolve in Marcus’s arms, burying his mouth against Marcus’s shoulder in an effort to contain himself. 

                Marcus begged, “Olivia, please.”

                She finally got out of the truck and stood, looking at Marcus like she wanted to say something more, do something.  He shook his head, pleading with her to let this episode be over so he could focus on what he needed to.  She nodded sadly, and shut the door on them, turning with her son to go inside.

                Now Marcus was confronted with a logistical problem.  Within minutes, Mouse had parked the truck in the hotel’s small parking lot beneath the building, so it was time to go upstairs, except that Tomás was in no state for walking.  And not only would he need to walk; he would have to navigate up the stairs, through the front door and the lobby of the hotel to get to the elevator. He would have to pass by any number of curious eyes.

                Turning off the engine, Mouse simply said, “I’ll be upstairs.”

                The truck door was shut carefully on them, and Marcus remained in the back seat of the truck as Tomás splintered apart.  The shudders tore through his body relentlessly, so intensely that Marcus felt nauseated with empathetic reaction.  Every few seconds Tomás would gulp out a sort of sob.  He seemed incapable of speech, incapable of doing anything except clinging to Marcus. 

                For himself, Marcus saw no reason to hold back his grief any longer.  He wept for Luis, who had probably been changed forever, even though he’d not been harmed in any obvious way.  He wept for Amelia, who was no longer possessed but was still a victim of too-human abuse.  He wept for Tomas, who seemed to be doomed to be beloved of God.  But mostly he wept for himself, because he was pretty sure he’d just looked his maker in the eye and it had been like nothing that he would have wanted.  

                After a time, it seemed that perhaps Tomás was not quite so hysterical, and Marcus began to hold out hope that they could leave the truck.   

                “Tomás … do you think you can walk upstairs?”

                Tomás drew a shivery breath.  “I’m sor—“

                Marcus put a hand over his mouth just long enough to stop the word.  “Nope, don’t want to hear that.” 

                Tomás gulped, “But I—I did a bad thing—and he left—he didn’t come back.”

                “You’re not making much sense, sweetheart.”

                “He hurt me, Marcus.”

                “I know.”

                “No, I… “  Tomas broke off, bending over with a groan.  “ _Carajo!_   God, it hurts.”

                “Your head?” 

                “Everything.”

                “Okay, you know, I’d really like to get you upstairs, because that’s where all the drugs are.  And the bed.  Are you ready to try?”

                The traverse of the hotel lobby was accomplished with surprising ease, once Tomás had found sufficient will to operate his legs.  Marcus draped one of Tomás’s arms over his shoulders and said loudly as they passed the front desk, “It’s a bit early in the day to be falling down drunk, mate!  Must have been one helluva brunch meeting.” 

                The snarky teenager who usually manned the desk during daylight hours looked Tomás over with a curled lip and said nothing.  Marcus had no idea why he felt it necessary to protect Tomás from the punk’s negative opinion, other than that Tomás didn’t deserve it.  A few other guests were standing about, looking very interested, even predatory in one or two instances.  No one commented, although there were a few leering grins.

                In this way, Marcus got Tomás as far as their bed, where Tomás let his knees give out, abandoning all pretence of wellness.  Marcus spent the next few minutes building a slope of pillows for him, and fetching him an extra blanket out of the closet.  Then he retrieved the bottle of Tylenol, the ones with codeine, from his duffle.

                “You might want to take two of these,” Marcus suggested.  “That’s the standard dose.  Do you have any sort of reaction to codeine?”

                “Don’t know,” Tomas said. 

                “I guess we’ll find out, yeah?”

                There came a knock and Mouse entered from her room.  She said nothing at first, just watched Tomas downing his pills.  Then she said, “I’d like to talk about what happened today.”

                Marcus replied, “Now isn’t the best time, Mouse.”

                Tomás laid back, pulling the blanket up to his chin.  He closed his eyes and said, “I hope I’m going to be asleep soon, but go ahead.”  His voice was dull. 

                Mouse lifted both brows and stepped fully into the room.  She pulled out a chair from the little dinette table and turned it to face the bed, sitting, while Marcus crooked his leg under himself and sat next to Tomás.

                “What happened in the church?” Mouse said, very quiet.

                Tomás did not appear to feel a need to respond to that.

                “Something happened,” Mouse pressed.  “Something unprecedented.  What was it?”

                Marcus ventured, “God… banished the demon.”

                “God always banishes the demon, isn’t that the way it goes?”

                “Yes, well… this time He did it in a much more hands-on sort of way… “  Marcus coughed.  For some reason, uttering the words felt like a blasphemy.  “…using Tomás.”

                “I’m not following you.”

                Marcus appealed to the man beside him.  “Tomás?”

                “ _Que_?” Tomás said, eyes still closed.

                “Can you… What happened to you in the church?”

                Tomás shook his head.  “Can’t.”

                Mouse sucked a breath.  “So is this how it’s going to go?  We chauffeur Tomas from place to place and he does all the demon work while we stand and watch?”

                At this, Tomas forced his eyes open.  He frowned at her from his reclined position.

                “I need to be a part of the work,” she said.  “I was entirely sidelined today and yesterday.”

                “That’s not true,” Marcus argued.  “You discovered Horvath.  You did the investigating at the school.”

                “So I’m reduced to grunt work then.”

                “You’re the one who told me to stop being so old-fashioned and just embrace the atom bomb.  You got what you wanted.”

                “Atom bomb?” Tomás queried.

                “That’s you, luv.”

                “Feels more like a bomb fell on me.”

                Mouse did not look inclined towards empathy for Tomás, not yet.  Her hands were clenching and unclenching.  Marcus could see the fear in her, and he could understand it.  For decades, she had been on the front line, and had probably called the shots with Tomás, up until recently. 

                Marcus was scared too, but not for the same reasons.  If what had happened today was a portent for future exorcisms, then he and God had a problem, not so much because he still needed his rituals, but because he didn’t see how anyone could survive this in the long term. 

                His work had changed.  So be it.  But he couldn’t let this be Tomás’s new normal.

                “Listen,” Marcus said.  “God has made one thing abundantly clear over the past few days:  We are not in charge of this show.  I don’t know where this is headed.  None of it went as expected, and for all we know the next time will be entirely different too.”

                “There’s one thing I can do,” Mouse said, standing.  “I can go it alone.”

                Tomas stiffened, and winced.  He sat up, peeling himself off his pillows with some difficulty.  “Mouse…no.  Please don’t do that.  You’re a part of this team.”

                “It looks like there’s only one person on this team.  Marcus and I are just the mascots.”

                “I resent that,” Marcus said.  “I am essential.  Always will be.  And what the hell is wrong with you?  Are you seriously throwing a tantrum because you can’t call the plays anymore?”

                Mouse didn’t answer, and Marcus thought he’d pretty much hit the nail on the head.  Her work was her whole life—her whole reason for living, actually—and now it appeared that it was being taken away from her. 

                “I don’t know,” Mouse said.  She appeared uncertain, which was a fairly uncommon look for her. It suggested that she was in serious turmoil. 

                “Please just don’t go now,” Tomás said.  Despite his best efforts to remain in the conversation, his eyelids were beginning to droop a little.  He half-collapsed back onto the pillows.

                She considered him for several beats.  “Fine,” she said. “I’ll think about it.”  She went into her half of the suite, closing the door behind her.  

               

 

 

  

 

                The codeine made Tomás very sleepy, as it turned out.  He slept the rest of day away, getting up around eight to drink one of the “horrible” shakes and to take more pills.  Then he was asleep again, and he drowsed through most of the following day as well.  From time to time he would lie with his eyes pointed hazily at daytime talk shows, simulating consciousness. 

                As for Marcus, he launched into a research project figuring that, as long as he was a city that contained a number of world class universities, he was going to avail himself of their resources.  He began seriously searching for any books he could find on prophecy, revelation and theophany.  He’d made a long list of prospective sources, and his next step would be to find a way to convince the university librarians to let him use them.  He was seriously thinking of asking Tomás if he could borrow his collar, but that could wait for another day.  In the interim he sat beside Tomás with the laptop, occasionally glancing over to verify that Tomás was still resting.  He needn’t have worried, however, for the magic of codeine kept Tomás more or less plastered to the bed.

                Mouse was keeping to herself, leaving the door between the two rooms shut.  Marcus let her be, but he genuinely hoped that she would decide to stay.  Not that he was entirely sure where the dynamic was headed himself, but he had intimations of a future where he and God were locked in battle over Tomás and he could really use an ally.  There was nothing he could say to convince her, but he was quite prepared to let her go her own way if she was unable to accept that she was no longer the coach for their little team.  He would have to.

                Around supper time on that second day, Tomás was conscious and composed enough to receive a visit from Olivia and Luis.  Olivia had brought Tomas more food, which he accepted graciously.  He made a stab at leaving bed, wincing with every movement.  It seemed as though he’d been hollowed out and put back together, each individual muscle and bone in his body bruised by God’s grip on him.  His sister took his arm without a word and turned him around.  She marched him back to the bed, and he went without much complaint. 

                Then Olivia suggested that Marcus take Luis to the Dairy Queen a couple of blocks down the street for ice cream.  Marcus had to admit that he was surprised, and impressed by how she wasn’t riding her son like a surveillance drone given the scare she’d had the day before.

                It wasn’t the warmest sort of spring evening, but Marcus could eat ice cream in any weather, and Luis was of a similar philosophy.  The boy seemed no worse for the wear from his misadventure.  As they sat in the red, hard plastic seats, Marcus with his old school peanut buster parfait and Luis with an Oreo cookie blizzard, Marcus inquired, “Are you okay, Luis?”

                “Yes, sir.”

                “Sir?” Marcus said.  “Since when am I sir?”

                “Mamá told me to be polite.”

                “I won’t have you calling me sir.  How about just using my name?”

                “Can I call you Uncle Marcus?” the boy asked, a bit timidly.

                Marcus was startled.  “Uncle?”

                “Mamá said you and Uncle Tomás are partners, so that would make you my uncle.”

                This declaration caused Marcus equal degrees of pleasure and anxiety.  He supposed he had made no secret of his feelings, nor had Tomás, but he had no idea what it meant to Olivia or if she would turn it into a problem for her brother.  He had no reason to think she was that sort of person, but he’d been wrong about people before.  Luis seemed to think nothing of it.  His education must have been a lot more progressive than what Marcus had received as a boy.

                “I would like that,” he said.  “Now, Luis, I need you tell me if anything at all happened yesterday that was scary or upsetting for you.  Obviously, the situation was scary but… did she say anything or do anything to you?  Did she… did she touch you in a way that made you feel… wrong?“

                “No,” the boy said.  “I know all about bad touching.  Mamá asked me about it too.  Amelia just grabbed me and yanked me around… and she said that no one would come for me but I knew she was lying.”

                “Good lad.”

                But then Luis squirmed and scowled uncomfortably, like there was something he was holding in.  Marcus already knew the boy well enough to realize that this was not in his nature.

                “Is something bothering you, Luis?  You can tell me.”

                Luis bit his lip.  He said, “I didn’t tell Mamá exactly what happened though.”

                It was concerning, the idea that Luis had some experience that he couldn’t or wouldn’t share with his mother.  Perhaps he was just getting to the age for to have secrets, but it still rang alarm bells for Marcus.  “What is it?” he asked. 

                “Promise you won’t tell Mamá?”

                “I promise… but what don’t you want to tell her?”

                Luis gazed deep into his Oreo blizzard and mumbled, “Uncle Tomás… he was really scary.  Really, really… _scary_.  I don’t want Mamá to know about that.  I think it would upset her.”

                Bloody hell.  If Tomás thought that Luis was afraid of him, it would kill him.

                “I think it would upset her too,” Marcus admitted.  “Because it upset me.  A lot.”

                Luis raised his head and nodded eagerly.  It must have helped to see that he wasn’t alone. 

                “But you know,” Marcus said.  “I think your Mamá will probably find out at some point.  So maybe you should tell her.”  In truth, he wasn’t sure that Olivia would find out, but he _was_ sure of one thing:  Honest relationships were one of the best defenses against demonic possession.  And at this point, it was probably a good strategy to keep Olivia in the know, lest she accidentally get Tomás committed to a mental hospital at some point.

                “Okay,” Luis said, and seemed relieved.  Marcus realized that the keeping of this secret had been troubling the boy more than he’d let on.

                “You aren’t afraid of Uncle Tomás now, I hope.”

                The boy bit his lip again.  “No,” he said, but he made it into a bit of a question.

                “Are you sure?”

                “He wasn’t like my tio.  I... I wasn’t totally scared of him because I knew he wouldn’t let anything happen to me… but I didn’t like it.”

                “I didn’t either,” Marcus admitted.

                “It was like there was something inside him,” Luis added.  He flicked a glance up at Marcus, checking to see if his perceptions could be trusted.

                Marcus scraped up the chocolate sauce from the bottom of his plastic bowl, and kept his tone casual.  “What do you think it was?”

                “I don’t know… I thought maybe an angel.”

                The idea took Marcus by surprise.  It hadn’t occurred to him that what had possessed Tomas could be anything other than The Man himself.   

                “An angel?”

                “Yeah, ‘cuz I’ve seen pictures of angels where they have swords and people are really scared of them.  And Uncle Tomás told me once that angels in the Bible aren’t like those silly pictures of blond babies in white dresses.  He said they’re dangerous.  And if demons can be inside people, maybe angels can too.”

                The more Marcus thought about it, the more he liked the theory.  But it would need investigation.  “Luis, you’re a remarkable boy.”

                “I know,” the boy replied, and Marcus laughed. 

                Luis smiled shyly.  “And anyway, angels smipe demons, and that’s what my tio did.  He smiped that demon.”

                “I think you mean ‘smite’.  He ‘smited’ the demon.”

                “I’m pretty sure it’s ‘smipe’, Uncle Marcus.”

                “All right,” Marcus conceded.  “Shall we head back?”

                When they returned to the room, Tomas and Olivia were sitting together on the bed, and they were deep in conversation, their heads close together.  Both of them appeared to have been crying, but they smiled easily enough at Luis and Marcus.  The storm was past, whatever it had been.

                “I think we should be going,” Olivia said.  “Somebody has school tomorrow.”

                “Aww, Mamá!”

                “Aww, nothing.  You already missed two days and I have to think of something to tell your teacher.”

                “Just tell her I was sick,” Luis suggested blithely.

                “We’re supposed to tell the school when you’re sick and I didn’t do that.”

                “So you forgot,” Marcus suggested, shrugging.

                “What Uncle Marcus said.”

                “Uncle Marcus?” Tomás said, bemused.  He glanced at Olivia, who shrugged.

                “Yeah,” Marcus responded.  “It’s my new name.”

                As soon as Olivia and Luis had gone, Marcus got ready for bed, expecting that Tomás would be asleep again by the time he got there.  Tomás was wide awake, however.  “Uncle Marcus,” he said, like he was trying it out.  He smiled, just a bit.

                “That’s me.”

                “Did you talk to Luis?  Is he really okay?”

                “Yes, I think he’s really okay.”

                “But how can he be,” Tomás said fretfully, “When he knows that what I do can affect him like that?  What’s to stop another demon from going after him… or Olivia?”

                Marcus settled on the bed and took in the wide-eyed expression Tomas was wearing.  “Do you need another dose of Tylenol?”

                “Marcus!”

                “Okay, okay.  Here’s what I can tell you.  I can’t make promises but in my experience demons don’t usually operate like human criminals, with kidnappings and threats and extortion.  They like to make everything very personal.  Is that a one hundred percent guarantee that your sister and your nephew will be safe?  No.  You know that.”

                Tomás closed his eyes and muttered something, making a sign of the cross.

                “I do know that the more time we spend around them, the greater the chances of them being involved,” Marcus added.

                “Then we need to leave.”

                “Oh, no.  I mean, yes, we will, but not until after you’ve had your physical and your consultation with the neurologist and whatever follow-ups.  So that’s at least a month here.”

                “But Marcus—“

                “This is non-negotiable, Tomás.”

                Tomás gave him a long stare that, on a twelve-year-old boy, would have been considered a pout.  Then he said, in a tone that was strongly reminiscent of his nephew at his most charming and manipulative, “We could go and come back for the appointments.”

                “And if we leave, what are the odds that something might come up that turns out to be higher priority, huh?  No, we’re staying here for the time being.”

                “But I need my family to be safe!”

                Marcus said, being as convincing as he could, “They _are_ safe.  As safe as we can make them at least.  That’s all I’ve got.”

                _And God himself came down to deal with the first demon that tried to hurt them, in case you hadn’t noticed._ Perhaps it hadn’t been the primary reason for God’s intervention, but it was still might have reassured Tomás somewhat to realize it.

                Tomás was quiet as Marcus got himself settled and opened one of his sketchbooks.  After a moment of random doodling, he started to sketch the church from earlier that day.  He let himself be caught up in the meditative process of assembling smudges and lines, content to wait until Tomás worked around to whatever he wanted to ask. 

                “I do need some pills,” Tomás admitted, finally.  “I mean, if you don’t mind—“

                “Of course.”  Marcus sprang up, going to fetch the bottle and refilling Tomás’s water glass.  He also grabbed himself a beer from the fridge.  “Is there anything else you need?”

                Tomás shook his head.  His face said that he needed a million things but nothing that Marcus could supply for him.  So Marcus had to settle for re-building his pillow mountain and in taking great care in getting them comfortably situated, with Tomas partly propped against the pillows and partly against his side.  Tomás laid his head on Marcus’s chest and sighed.

                “How’s the pain?” Marcus asked.

                “Not too bad.  It’s easing off.”

                “That’s good.”

                “Do you mind if I turn on the TV?”

                “No, go ahead.”  Marcus reran their conversation of the past minute and snorted.  “You know we sound like an old married couple?”

                “Hmm.”  Tomás nuzzled Marcus’s neck a little.  “Is that a problem?”

                “Not for me.”

                Tomás turned on the TV and found a rerun of _Star Trek: The Next Generation_ on the Syfy Channel.  He made a sound of pleased surprise and nestled carefully against Marcus, like a cat kneading its way into a position of maximum comfort. 

                Marcus said, “Not that I disapprove of Jean-Luc Picard, but aren’t you going back to sleep?”

                “Can’t.  I’ve slept too much today.”

                “Well, let’s see what happens when the Tylenol kicks in.”

                Tomás raised the volume on the TV a little.  

                “I’ve always had a thing for Picard,” Marcus mused, raising his beer bottle and taking a long swallow. 

                “Amen to that,” Tomás replied.  Marcus glanced down him and he added, “Objectively, Patrick Stewart is hot.”

                “Objectively,” Marcus echoed in wonder.

                “I had more of a thing for Data though.”

                Marcus felt his face split into a grin.  “Really?”

                “I like super smart men.”

                “Or smart robots?”

                “He’s not a robot, he’s an android, and he’s more human than most of the characters on the show.”

                “I stand corrected.”  Marcus was still grinning.  He hadn’t given the question of Tomás’s sexuality a single thought until this moment, since it seemed to be a moot point.  But now he was curious.  “Any other guy crushes I should know about?  Have you even been with a guy before?”

                “Uh, not really.”

                “Not really?  How does that work?”

                “There was this boy in high school.  We had a really intense friendship and I didn’t know what it meant until one day he kissed me.”

                “What did you do?”

                Tomás made a sheepish grimace.  “I stood there like an idiot.”

                “Sounds familiar.”

                Instead of laughing as Marcus had intended, Tomas was abashed.  “Marcus, I’m—”

                “I’m taking the piss, Tomás.  So what happened after he kissed you?

                “I… I ran away.  But later I found him and I told him I was just surprised.  We went out a couple of times.”

                “Did you have any sort of sexuality crisis then?”

                Tomás shrugged.  “I don’t think so.”

                “Did you know you were headed for seminary at that point?”

                “I was thinking about it.”

                “Sowing a few wild oats, huh?”

                Tomás shrugged again.  “I don’t care much for labels.  You love who you love.”

                “And what about church doctrine?  It didn’t concern you at all?”

                “Not that particular doctrine, no.”

                “And… how far… did it go?”

                Tomás reached up, thumbed Marcus’s jaw in his direction and angled a kiss that landed light and sweet and salty.  “You want to know if I’ve had sex with a man?” he said.  “No.  But I’m hoping to very soon.”

                “Is that so?”

                “ _Si_.” 

                “What about your vows?”

                “I don’t care,” Tomás declared.  He was meeting Marcus’s eyes and his gaze was steady.  “With Jessica it was wrong because we both had other obligations.  But I’m not a priest anymore, Marcus, not really.”  Marcus made to speak and Tomás shook him off.  “I belong to God, there is no question, but I don’t belong to the Church anymore.  I don’t need to follow their rules, especially the ones I never agreed with in the first place.  And I don’t believe for a second that God cares about us loving each other.  He did send you back to me.” 

                “I’d like to think I _chose_ to come back… but yes, I agree.”

                “I’m not making you uncomfortable, talking this way?”

                “Why would I be?”

                “Because you never really talk about sex… or your opinions about it.  I thought, maybe it’s a British thing.”

                Marcus chuckled.  “That’s a no, I just thought… there’s no rush.  And you haven’t seemed all that interested, to be honest.”

                “I’m s—“  Tomás stopped himself this time, before he could utter the word.  “I’m going to work on fixing that, but you know… we could still do some things.  I could…” 

                His hand drifted in the direction of Marcus’s crotch.  Marcus caught it, stopped it before it got even halfway to its destination.  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

                “I want to give you something.”

                “Do you feel anything for me, though?”

                “I _love_ you, Marcus.”

                “Sure, you love me.  But do you want me?”

                “ _Yes_.”

                Marcus shook his head.  “What I’m asking is, do you feel any desire for me at this moment?”

                Tomás held his breath, then exhaled and admitted, “No.”  He blurted, “I did feel it, before…. Before I got so tired.  That’s the truth.  I look at you and I see someone very attractive, someone I want to be with, I just… I can’t seem to feel that in my body.”

                “It’s depression, luv.”  Marcus lifted the hand that he was still holding to his mouth and kissed it.  “Or maybe just a symptom of all the stress you’ve been under, but until you can feel the same desire for me as I feel for you, we’re not doing anything.  That’s my final word on that.”

                Tomás sighed heavily.  “Okay.”

                “I mean, do I give you the impression of a man who would dump the love of his life because he can’t get off right away?  I should be insulted.”

                Instead of being chastised, Tomás looked up at him with a very soft expression.  “Love… of your life?”

                Marcus coughed.  “Yeah, well… at least one of them.”

 

 

 

 

 

                By the end of the episode, Tomás was asleep with his head against Marcus’s shoulder, and Marcus was busily sketching his face from the high angle, looking down on his profile.  It was an interesting vantage point.  Tomás had the kind of face that was a little different every time he looked, and depending on _how_ he looked.  He would never be able to entirely capture Tomás on the page, he thought, so it was probably best that he quit trying for tonight. 

                He tried to turn off the TV and get into a more comfortable position for sleep without disturbing Tomás, and he thought he might have accomplished it, except that Tomás suddenly jerked upright with a quiet little gasp.  He stared, disoriented for a few seconds, until he saw Marcus and he slumped with relief.

                “Bad dream?” Marcus asked.

                “ _Si_.”

                “Something… prophetic?”

                Oddly, Tomás was keeping his back to Marcus, as though he were hiding from him.  Marcus waited, then put a hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze.  Tomás still didn’t turn to him.

                “Tomás?”

                “I just remembered something I was supposed to tell you.”

                Marcus felt a shiver of unease. “That doesn’t sound ominous at all.”

                “It’s not prophetic.  It’s just kind of hard.”

                “Tell me.”

                Tomás finally turned to look at Marcus.  He said, “You were probably wondering what the demon was talking about.  What it showed me.”

                Marcus nodded.

                “When I was six… my father broke my arm.  He was angry and he grabbed me the wrong way… so it was an accident.  I… I made myself forget it.  There was a trip to the hospital and doctors and…” His voice trembled to a stop.  He steadied it.  “I guess that’s where my phobia started.”

                Even though he’d already begun to suspect something like this when Olivia had told him about Tomás having broken his arm, Marcus was still bowled over by his own moral outrage.  It took a while for him to sound calm.  “I see,” he said at last.

                “Olivia and I talked about it while you were out with Luis.  She always remembered but she didn’t know that I’d… forgotten.  She never said anything because I never said anything, I guess.”

                “And that was the only time your father hurt you?” Marcus asked.  It seemed the most pertinent question to him. 

                “He didn’t ever hit me if that’s what you mean, but he did hurt me.  He left.  Not right after that, but soon.  I think Mamá made him go, in part because of what happened.  They were already unhappy but…”  Tomás put his hand on Marcus’s knee.  “I know it’s nothing like what you experienced…”

                “Hold the fort, Tomás.  We aren’t playing ‘who-had-the-least-nifty-childhood’ here.  I was on the extreme end of the spectrum, yeah, but that doesn’t make your experience less valid.”

                “Yes, well… I suppose I always thought it was my fault.  That my parents separated.”  Tomás peered up at Marcus from under his lashes, asking for reassurance. 

                “That’s what children always think, and it’s never true.”

                “I know that in my rational, adult mind, but there is this part of me that is still a child, who just knows… it was something I did.  That’s the reason he left, because I made a fuss, because I cried about how much it hurt.”

                “Oh, luv.”

                “I told myself that if I just kept quiet and didn’t cause any trouble, it would be okay.  Maybe he’d come back.  But he never did.  And there’s still this voice in my head that says if I don’t stop making a fuss, I’ll drive everyone away.”  Tomás grasped for Marcus’s hand; Marcus gave it to him.  “I’ll drive you away with all my—my Tomás-ness.”

                “That’s not going to happen.”

                “But…”  Tomás lowered his head, and his volume.  He nearly mumbled:  “You already left once.”

                “Tomás… I’m so sorry.  I had no idea…”

                “You had good reason.”

                “I don’t know that I did.”

                “The demon…Vaasa… made it sound like all of this prophecy stuff started because I was alone.  She suggested that I wouldn’t have become a priest, and God would never have chosen me, if I wasn’t looking for a father figure.  She made it seem like God is no better than Errol Horvath.”

                “Dime store psychology,“ Marcus scoffed, while inwardly half-agreeing with the demon.  How many of God’s servants had been lost, angry, or lonely children desperately looking for a connection?  How many _hadn’t_ been?  

                “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

                “So… what, then?  You trying to tell me your faith isn’t the real deal, Tomás?  Because I know for a fact that it is.  Your faith is the only thing that keeps _me_ going sometimes.”

                Tomás flushed at the praise.  “Thank you, but you know… it’s not easy.  I believe in God and His son with all my heart but… I was so angry at Him the other day, I wanted to quit everything and just free myself, like some kid rejecting his dad.  Maybe on some level I do equate him with my father… and maybe the reason He chose me is that I’ve always been clutching at Him, afraid He doesn’t want me.  So the demon was right.  I… I’ll do anything for Him.”  Tomás ducked his head.  “Just like I’ll do anything for you.  I need to make up for… for being me.”

                “What are you on about?” Marcus breathed, wishing he could go back in time and punch everyone who’d ever let Tomás feel this way about himself.  Including himself. 

                “I’m pig-headed,” Tomás confessed, as though this was news to Marcus. “I never do what I’m told, I’m constantly making trouble for you.”

                “I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration…”

                “Supposedly we’re in a relationship but I’m just this… this _problem_ that’s somehow turned into your full-time job.”

                “You’re an idiot.”  Marcus pulled Tomas towards himself until they were each nearly resting one forehead against the other.  “As far as I’m concerned, Tomás maintenance is what I was meant to do.”

                “Scoring illegal drugs,” scoffed Tomás. 

                “Taking care of a person I love.”

                “Steering me around hospitals.”

                “ _Really_ enjoying your comedy routine.”

                “Lying to doctors.”

                “I always knew my talents would find their best use.”  Marcus kissed Tomas’s forehead quickly, before he could protest.  He added, “You couldn’t do this without me… right?”

                “Right,” Tomas agreed. 

                “Sounds like I’m pretty important then.”  Marcus teased Tomás’s mouth with his own, offering as much of a kiss as Tomás wanted.  He breathed, “I _like_ my new job.”

                Tomás met his mouth with the slightest pressure, just once before pulling back, and they remained there with their noses just about touching. 

                “Now,” Marcus declared, “I don’t want to hear you saying that kind of shite about yourself anymore.  Are we clear?”

                “Yes.”

                “Say it.”

                “No more shite.”

                Marcus tossed his head back and laughed.  “Damn but I love it when you talk British.  Do it some more.”

                Tomás blushed, as he always seemed to when given a compliment.  He tried, “Um….bly-mee, but I’m knickered.  I could give a toss about _Star Trek._ ”

                Marcus chortled.  “It’s ‘knackered’, luv.  You’re knackered.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, folks. This is where the story was originally going to end but it occurred to me that there are a few loose threads that I want to follow up... and also, a few threads to introduce in anticipation of a sequel! Chapter Eight is going be a little bit delayed, though, because I am going on the road. I'm going to try to work on the chapter along the way but I won't have a lot of time. Please bear with me! It shouldn't be more than two weeks at most.
> 
> Thank you for reading and commenting, as always.


	8. Tomás

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was only so much daytime television that a person could take without going insane. Three days of dosing himself with painkillers, three days of sleeping a whole lot and not doing much else, had left him twitching with boredom and a need to move, so Tomás rose from his sickbed and declared himself recovered. There were still odd pangs and twinges deep within his body, which were easy enough to manage. A little more difficult was the sense of dread that had settled in his bones, like a chill that was never quite dispelled.

 

 

 

 

                A woman in purple scrubs offered him a smile along with her hand for him to shake.  “Good morning, Father Ortega, I’m Dr. Danika Adamczyk.”  She was in her fifties perhaps, with a face seamed by experience and a certain warmth about her, very much unlike his previous—admittedly limited—experience of doctors.

                “Adam-st-shick?” Tomás said, stumbling over the consonants.   

                “Adamczyk, but you can just call me Danika if you like.  A lot of my patients do.”

                He accepted the hand and shook it.  He’d taken a quarter of an Ativan about an hour ago in an attempt to take the edge off his jitters while staying lucid.  It didn’t seem to be having much effect.  He could see his hands shaking, and she had to be noticing that. “Thank you… Dr. Danika?”

                Her smile widened.  “Sure.  Have a seat.”

                “Danika is a lovely name,” he said, sitting down and taking a grip on his knees.  He felt not unlike a schoolboy in the principal’s office.

                “Thank you, Father Ortega.”

                “Call… call me Tomás, please.”

                “Tomás,” she echoed, and she had gotten the accent right, unlike him with her name.  “Now that we’ve got the names handled… how are you feeling today?”

                It was the very last question that Tomás had been expecting, and it stopped him breathing for just an instant.  He gulped down some of the thin air in the room, which was little more than a small, white-walled, windowless box.  He had been directed to an uncomfortable chair placed in one corner, adjacent to a narrow floating desk.  She seated herself on a rotating stool that would enable her to shift direction and advance on him as she pleased.  Just across the way, the examination table with its disposable paper sheath made him tremble, and he deliberately focused on a poster on the wall, just above the contraption: _The Top Ten Myths About STDs_.  “Um…nervous.”

                “Why are you nervous?” she asked. 

                It was simple inquiry, not a challenge.  He considered her, probably longer than was strictly polite.  The eyes were a deep and sincere brown, observing him in turn with steady, professional interest.  Those eyes did not miss much, he sensed.

                He wondered if it had been a mistake to come in here alone, and then rebuked himself for thinking that way.  He was not the six-year-old that Vaasa had shown him in his own mind, no.  Not that boy who had faced a group of white coats and strange faces almost hysterical with fear and pain and then buried that trauma for nearly thirty years.  He was a grown man, one who had successfully reached an accord—following a series of protracted negotiations—to the effect that Marcus would remain in the waiting area, in reciprocity for Tomás’s promise to be forthcoming with the doctor.  Within reason, of course. 

                They’d also agreed that, for the foreseeable future and to the world at large, he was not a priest.  He could put on a collar during exorcisms if absolutely necessary for “performance value”, as Marcus had put it, but Tomás was confident that he no longer needed to wear it to save a soul, and he wasn’t entirely comfortable with donning his priest’s garb as he would a costume for some theatrical production.  Marcus had reminded him that he was, in fact, ordained, but Tomás had too much respect for the collar to use it that way.

                In the meantime, they had concurred that it was best for him to keep a low profile.  However, it seemed that the point was moot since the doctor had already addressed him as “Father”.

                Tomás drew a much slower breath and exhaled on the words of Corinthians 13:11, reciting rapidly and nearly inaudibly:  “ _When I was a child I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child… but when I became a man, I put away childish things_.” 

                Doctor Danika was still waiting for him to answer, unperturbed by his mumbling. 

                Perhaps it was instinct, or perhaps something else, that made him lean in slightly and take a closer look at her.  He noted that she was wearing a simple, gold crucifix, so tiny and subtle it could easily be ignored if one chose to.  On the instant, he made a decision.  It was not unlike the choice to have faith in a higher being, although trusting in the good will of another human being should have been much less of a leap.  Right now, it felt nearly as momentous as a conversion to a different religion. 

                “I’m a bit afraid of doctors if I’m honest,” he admitted. 

                “Oh.”  She smiled again.  “That’s understandable.  We aren’t exactly famous for spreading good news.” 

                She had a very slight accent.  It was nearly imperceptible except as the occasional ornament on certain words.  For some reason, knowing that she was probably an import to this country, like himself, ratcheted up his confidence another notch.

                He said, “You don’t have good news for me, I’m afraid.” He nodded towards the folder that was open in front of her on the floating desk, in which there was very clearly a printout with a series of incomprehensible numbers and letters.

                Dr. Danika followed the direction of his gaze, and her eyes widened slightly.  “Are you worrying about what’s in this folder?”  She tapped it with a knuckle.  “There is nothing so terrible here.  You do need to start taking your vitamins and”—she gave him a keen look—“start eating regularly.  Your CT scan was normal and your lipids and sugars are excellent.  I think it’s more important right now to talk about what’s been going on in your life.  I see you had a bit of an adventure in the Emergency department last week.”

                “Yes,” Tomás acknowledged, bracing.

                “And were briefly admitted to psychiatric care.”

                Oh, _that_.  “The doctor thought I was a danger to myself,” Tomás replied as calmly as he could, given that he was vibrating in his chair.  He wasn’t rattled by her bringing up the incident last week, not at all.  It would be in his chart and it would have been more surprising had she not mentioned it.

                “Are you?” 

                “Am I… what?”

                “Dangerous.”

                Spoken by a different person, the word might have been very alarming, but she had a gift for somehow being very direct and still sounding gentle. 

                “No, no, Marcus—he’s my partner—he explained everything to the doctor and he realized that it was a mistake.”

                “Marcus must be a very convincing fellow.”

                Tomás snorted.  “He is… believe me.”

                “I do believe you.  I happen to know that Dr. O’Malley can be a bit obstinate.”

                Hearing this was the first serious blow to Tomás’s new faith.  “You know him?” he said, not quite able to scour the suspicion from his voice.

                “In passing,” she said, amused.  “He’s my nephew.”

                “Oh…”

                “No worries.”  Dr. Danika quickly patted Tomás on the arm.  “Dr. O’Malley is very young and has a fair bit to learn, but he means well.  I think he might have referred you to me because he thought we would hit it off.”

                Tomás commanded himself to stop clenching.  His body refused to listen.  “Why would he think that?”

                “Hmm, well, I have a copy of his notes here.  Apparently, you’re a priest and you believe that God talks to you?  Also, you exorcise demons.”

                “How did you get those?” he demanded.  Not that he hadn’t been thinking about confiding in her.  He just didn’t like the idea of doctors confabulating about him without his knowledge.

                “You signed a release in the hospital.”

                “I don’t recall doing that.”

                “Perhaps it was when you were still partially sedated.  I apologize if you didn’t want me to see these.”

                No big deal, he was just wondering if he was about to be dragged off to another psych ward.  “It doesn’t make any difference now,” he sighed.

                “Oh, but it does.  Privacy is important.”

                “So you—you don’t think I’m crazy?”

                The doctor shook her head.  “Being ‘crazy’, as you call it, is rarely just about a single, unconventional belief.  You don’t look or act or talk like a person who is seriously mentally ill.  You strike me as quite rational, although somewhat agitated at the moment.”

                Tomás blinked at her, dumbfounded.  “Why couldn’t I have met you when I went to the hospital instead of him?”

                She chuckled.  “Perhaps he’s trying to atone for his mistake by sending you to me?”

                “You think so?”

                “He’s really not a bad person, Tomás.  And he knows that I’m somewhat religious. That’s probably another reason he set us up for this date.”

                “Just because you’re religious doesn’t mean that you’ll believe me.  A lot of religious people don’t believe in demons.”

                “That is true.”

                “You might think I’m a crackpot.  Or psychotic.”

                Their eyes met again.  The doctor said nothing, just continued to regard Tomás with her steady, nonjudgmental gaze.

                “But you don’t think that,” Tomás concluded.

                “There are all kinds of people who are psychotic even as we speak and are still running around, living their lives.  Some would argue that our current president is one of them.”

                Tomás laughed.  It helped him loosen up a little.

                She continued, “The critical question is whether you’re a danger to yourself or to anyone else.  Looking at you right now, I have to say that I _am_ a little concerned about your well-being.  You’re very underweight and borderline anemic.  Your nutrient levels are about equivalent to those of a person who’s just spent a year in a Russian gulag… which you didn’t, I assume.”

                Tomás shook his head.  “I’ve just had a lot of trouble eating lately.”

                “Because of the seizures.”

                “Partly.  And… I just didn’t feel like it.”

                “Loss of appetite can be a symptom of depression too.”

                Tomás nodded.  He was just rolling with her punches now, he figured. 

                “Again, forgive me—” Dr. Danika began.

                “It’s fine.”

                “—but your partner did say that he thinks you’re depressed, and my nephew concurred that you show some symptoms.”

                “I was going to tell you about it anyway.”

                “Okay, that’s good.  Now, understand, depression is not some moral flaw.  It’s a biochemical imbalance.”

                “I know that,” Tomás said.  He was _very_ tired of people assuming that because he was a priest, he rejected the entire scientific paradigm.  “I’m a trained social worker and I have a degree in psychology.”

                “Okay.”  She raised her hands.  “I didn’t mean to assume.”

                “Also divinity,” Tomás added, for some reason he wasn’t sure of.

                Dr. Danika looked interested.  “Did you have a parish at some point?” 

                “I did, here in Chicago.”

                “What happened?”

                Tomás frowned, puzzling over the direction of her questions.  “Do we have time for this?  I thought I was here for a physical.”

                “You are, but we’ll get to that soon enough.  I believe that your emotional and psychological well-being are the priority right now, Tomás, don’t you?”

                “I… yes.”    

                “Especially if they are connected to your malnutrition and other concerns.  But you assume that because I’m a doctor, I must not be concerned about such things?  Stick out your tongue say ‘ah’, follow my finger, and so on?”

                He deserved that; just moments ago he’d been huffy because she’d made assumptions about him.  “I’m sorry.  I don’t have a lot of experience with doctors.”

                “Fair enough.  And you’re right, not a lot of doctors take the time for these sorts of conversations… which I think is a mistake.  If a patient appears to have symptoms of depression, they just run down the assessment checklist.  I find it more helpful to get to know you a bit first.”

                He blurted, “Do you believe me?”

                “About…?

                “Demons.  Exorcism.”

                “It doesn’t matter what I believe.”

                “Doesn’t it, though?” he pressed. 

                “Not necessarily.”

                “What would most doctors do in your place?

                “They would refer you to a psychiatrist.”

                “Are you going to do that?”

                Dr. Danika folded her hands on her lap.  She looked very much like a person making up her mind about something.  “No,” she conceded.

                “Why not?”

                “Let’s just say that I’m prepared to believe in the _possibility_ of demons, and therefore I can’t draw any definite conclusions about whether or not what you’re telling me is true.  Is that enough to put you at ease?”

                He thought of all the reasons he had to _not_ be at ease with her.  It was both a shock and a comfort to realize that there was more than one kind of confession and more than one kind of confessor.  He’d been making confessions his entire life, so this was just one more… provided he could trust her.  It wasn’t like he could stop being whatever he was, but maybe she could help him to find some sort of healthy middle road.  That was what Marcus was hoping for, and what Tomás hoped for, if nothing else, was to be more of what Marcus wanted.

                “So,” resumed Dr. Danika.  “Since you know the signs of depression, Tomás, would you diagnose yourself as depressed?”

                “Yes,” he sighed.  It was a relief to be able to say it out loud.

                “What symptoms do you observe?”

                “I guess it started six months ago, when—when Marcus left.”

                Funny that talking about it now made emotion rise suddenly in his throat.  He fought it down.

                “Your partner.”

                “Yes.  I… made a decision to leave my parish, my home, my family, so I could do God’s work.  And it was fine for a while.  Then something happened and Marcus left, and then I started having the visions, the seizures.  It was very difficult, I got so tired, I…”  Tomás coughed.  “Then Marcus came back and it seemed like things got better, but still…” He tried again to clear away the hoarseness in his voice.  “I still don’t feel right.”

                “Would you say that you have persistent feelings of sadness?”

                “Yes, but sometimes… sometimes it’s more like I’m just numb.” 

_Especially since the church_ , he thought, but didn’t say.  He knew that was an entirely different set of symptoms and he wasn’t prepared to talk about them.  It felt too dangerous.  He flashed on a dream that he’d had last night that had wakened him almost in a panic, and his breathing quickened.  He swallowed hard, forcing back the images.

                “How often would you say you have these feelings?”

                “Every day, I guess.”

                “Now this is important, Tomás.  Do you ever think about killing yourself?  Or how others might be better off if you were gone?”

                “I’m not suicidal.  I’m guilty all the time, but I don’t want to die, I swear to you.  I want… what I want is to have a life.”

                “With Marcus?”

                “Yes.”  He frowned, playing that bit back.  He snapped, “Is that a problem?”

                “No,” she assured him, adopting a more soothing tone.  “I’m just trying to determine what sort of emotional support you have.”

                “Oh… forgive me.”

                “It’s okay, Tomás.  I’m glad to hear that you’re looking forward to a life with someone.  It’s a good motivation to get better.”  Dr. Danika scribbled some notes.  “What about anxiety?  I know you have a phobia about doctors.  Is there anything else that causes you anxiety?”

                Tomás shrugged.  “A lot of things, apparently.”

                “Anxiety and depression often go hand in hand.  It’s not surprising.  Would you say that your fears are specific, or do you just have a general feeling of all-encompassing dread?  Like something bad is going to happen but you’re not sure what?”

                The question set Tomás’s heart racing again.  Before his most recent exorcism—if it could even be called an exorcism—he could have listed his anxieties on one hand, but since then they’d multiplied and expanded.  He’d begun reacting in strange ways to things, out of nowhere.  He could admit to that.  He could describe it.  He just didn’t think he could talk about what had caused it. 

               

 

 

 

 

                There was only so much daytime television that a person could take without going insane.  Three days of dosing himself with painkillers, three days of sleeping a whole lot and not doing much else, had left him twitching with boredom and a need to _move_ , so Tomás rose from his sickbed and declared himself recovered.  There were still odd pangs and twinges deep within his body, which were easy enough to manage.  A little more difficult was the sense of dread that had settled in his bones, like a chill that was never quite dispelled. 

                Leaving the hotel for the first time since he’d been sick, he joined Marcus and Mouse for breakfast.  He hadn’t spoken at all with Mouse during those past three days.  Their conversations over eggs and bacon and pancakes were cordial, avoidant of the Big Question that loomed between them.  Mouse had still not declared her intentions and Tomás was following Marcus’s lead and giving her space.

                After breakfast, he went with Marcus to Loyola University Library.  Marcus was on some sort of quest to learn everything he could about prophecy, possession and related topics, not only from the Judeo-Christian tradition but also from around the world.  Tomás helped him lug a mountain of books to a study carrel and sat alongside, idly flipping through a copy of Catholic News Weekly while Marcus sorted and took notes.  Then Tomás helped him photocopy hundreds of pages, because the librarians had agreed to let him use the books but would not let him remove them from the library.

                Under any other circumstances, Tomás would have been very interested in what Marcus was learning.  He’d loved his studies, back in the day, and he often wished he could go back to school.  Or he had when he’d been in his parish at St. Anthony’s.  In the interim, he had to settle for enjoying his frequent debates with Marcus, whether about the finer points of canon law or about Mexico’s and Britain’s respective chances in the World Cup.  For the moment, though, he did not care to ask Marcus about what he was reading, nor what he was hoping to discover.  He was deliberately uncurious about the entire business, and Marcus must have sensed it, for he did not offer to share.  Perhaps he would announce some academic breakthrough at some point. 

                Tomás was not looking forward to it. 

                Likewise, he was dreading the inevitable moment when Marcus would turn to him and press him for details about what had happened to him in the church.  There was no question that it had been something new, and terrible in a way that he hadn’t experienced before.  But he didn’t know much more than that except that the demon had been banished and Luis saved, and then he had come back to himself feeling like an automaton that had been taken apart by a very hurried mechanic and then pieced back together with some dirty spit and string.  The feeling still hadn’t left him, to some degree.  He wasn’t entirely sure that he fit in his own skin anymore.   

                More than once over the past few days he had dreamed he was buried alive.  In the dreams, he was completely entombed, with some sort of dark shroud covering his face, clinging to his mouth and nostrils.  He choked and kicked and gasped but he could get nowhere.  He assumed he was dying but, as in the way of dreams, he was still conscious, aware of his terrifying state and, worse, that it was without end.  And also in the way of dreams, when he tried to scream, he couldn’t make a sound.  What scared him most was that it felt more like memory than prophecy.

                After the library, he and Marcus had gone to the Shedd Aquarium.  He’d wondered aloud at this but Marcus claimed that he’d always wanted to go.  So had they went, and it had been beautiful at first, until Tomás found himself sitting on a bench in the viewing area, people all around him, staring at the beluga whales behind the glass and imagining how it felt to be trapped in that cement box, unable to get out. 

                He hadn’t known that he was weeping until Marcus touched his arm. 

                “Tomás?”

                For a second, Tomás wasn’t sure of where he was.  He blinked through blurred eyes at Marcus. 

                “You okay?” Marcus asked, sitting down beside him.

                Tomás nodded, and the world undulated around him as though he, too, was underwater.  “Marcus… _ellos no pueden salir_.”  Again, he heard himself speaking and wondered at how it was happening when he couldn’t seem to feel it.

                “Say again?”

                “ _No pueden salir_ … “ Tomás repeated.  “They can’t get out… they can’t get out.”

                “Who?”

                For just a second, he didn’t believe that he-they were able to breathe.  He clutched at Marcus, his hand finding purchase on Marcus’s upper arm.  “They can’t get out, Marcus!” 

                It took a few seconds, or maybe it was minutes, for him to find himself again.  His vision blurred again, and then he felt Marcus’s hands on his shoulders, warm and steady.  He raised his head and saw that Marcus was watching him carefully, probably thinking he was about to have a seizure.

                Suddenly, Tomás was so exhausted he didn’t know how he could ever move from the bench.  “It’s wrong,” he lamented.  His heart ached on behalf of those whales, so much that he thought he might die of it.  “How do they breathe?”

                “I would imagine they surface.”

                “It’s wrong.  They shouldn’t be here.”

                “All right, I can see your point of view.  Can you stand up?”

                “Of course I can stand up!” Tomás shot back.

                Marcus pulled his hands away from Tomás.  “Show me,” he challenged.

                Tomás was shocked when he stood up and the world spun around him, nearly pitching him on his ass.  His legs were shaking.  Marcus grabbed him to steady him.  Tomás saw the faces around him gawking, or judging, or just staring pitilessly.  Whatever it was that they were thinking, he saw no compassion in them.  They surrounded him like sharks.

                “I’m sorry, luv,” Marcus apologized.  “It was a bit too much, coming here today on top of everything else.”

                Tomás made the mistake of shaking his head.  Everything whirled and he gripped Marcus to keep his balance.  “I’m… I’m just tired.”

                “Yeah, that was my point.”

                They got back to the hotel without much incident, although Tomás was moving slowly and could think about little but laying down the entire way.  He did exactly that upon their return, and he fell asleep immediately.

                Again he had the dream.  He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move or even scream.  He was entombed.

                He awoke with a start, shooting upright, sweating.  His eyes immediately caught upon the sight of Mouse sitting at what had become their family table.  Marcus was sitting across from her.  There was a full rucksack at Mouse’s feet and she was wearing her jacket.  Everything about her said she was prepared to leave.

                “Wait!” he burst out.  “Mouse, wait.”  

                “Hey,” Marcus said.  He stood and came to Tomás, brushing his hair out of his eyes and stroking down his cheek to relax him.  “It’s okay, Mouse isn’t going anywhere just now.  She wanted to talk to you.”

                Tomás felt a bit steadier at the touch.  He rubbed the crust from his eyes.  “How long did I sleep?” he wondered.

                “About four hours.”

                “ _Dios_.”  He put his feet on the floor.  He did feel much better for the nap, if something so prolonged could still be called that.  He went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth.  Then he got himself a glass of water and came to sit at the table with the other two.  “Did you talk about me while I was sleeping?”

                “Of course not,” Marcus said, with a smirk.

                Tomás was quite aware and reconciled to the fact that his family were spending considerable time consulting each other about him.  He couldn’t blame them, not when they were doing it mostly out of love.  In fact, he was pretty sure that Olivia had Marcus sending her regular reports by text.

                Mouse said, “This isn’t what you think, Tomás.”

                “It looks like you’re leaving.”  He gestured at her rucksack.

                “I’m leaving, but I’m not _leaving_.  I got a call from one of my contacts.  He found someone in New York who can translate some of the… material… that we collected during your visions.  I’m going to meet with him, and then I’ll be back.”

                On impulse, Tomás put his hand on the table, letting it fall open, and to his surprise, Mouse reached across and gripped it.  She almost never made physical contact with other people other than during exorcisms or other violent encounters.  She did not hug.  She didn’t like to be touched; she had tensed and sprung away like a cat the few times he’d tried it.

                Mouse declared, “So I need to apologize for my behaviour.”

                “No,” he protested.

                “Yes.  I was wrong to give you grief over what happened.  I know you didn’t choose any of this, and I’m sorry.”

                Tomás eyeballed Marcus, who gave him one of his best _teacherly_ looks in reply, and Tomás ventured, “Apology accepted?”

                “Thank you,” Mouse said, her mouth crooking up on one side.  She released her grip on his hand.  “So I will be back, probably within the week.  I’ll let you know my ETA.  I’ve left most of my stuff here, I think that we can make this our base of operations for a while.  You have work to do and I may have jobs to do in other places from time to time.  But I’m still a part of our team.”

                “What work do I have here?”

                “Getting healthy.”

                Tomás tried not to wince.  Knowing how uncomfortable this talk was for her made _him_ uncomfortable.  “But, Mouse… “  He couldn’t quite voice his concern.

                “Yeah?”

                “The cost.”

                “Of the hotel?  It’s not a problem, Tomás.”

                “But—“

                “I said _it’s fine_.  I’m not going to run out any time soon and there’s plenty more where that came from.  As far as I’m concerned, it’s not my money… it’s ours.”  She waved her hands as though displaying a neon banner.  “The Exorcist Support Fund.”

                He laughed a little, as she wanted. 

                She finished, “Really, you and Marcus both need to stop worrying about the money, okay?  It’s getting to be annoying.”

                He hadn’t been fretting nearly as much as Marcus, but he said, “I don’t want to annoy you.”

                “Stop doing it then.”

                “Okay.”

                “I’ve transferred a big chunk to Marcus’s bank account to cover your medical bills and whatnot.  I didn’t have your banking information.”

                “All right… thank you.”

                “You’re welcome.”  Again, Mouse shocked him.  She met him in the eye, smiled genially, and said, “I want you to feel better, Tomás.  Go to the doctors… and do what Marcus tells you.”

                Marcus sat back in—not quite—mock astonishment.  “What did you just say?”

                “Shut it,” she told him. 

                “But I thought…”  Marcus placed a hand dramatically over his heart.  “I heard you suggest that I might actually be right about some things.”

                “You are, on occasion.  You’re marginally less stubborn than Tomás, so that’s something.”

                “Oy, Mouse, you’re making me blush.”

                Mouse shook her head and went back to business, having not once cracked a smile in Marcus’s direction.  Tomás felt a little glow of happiness that only he had received that from her.

                “The bad news for you,” Mouse announced, “is I’m taking the truck.  You’ll have to rely on public transit until I get back.”

                “Not a problem,” Marcus declared.

                “It might be if you get another case in the suburbs.”

                _Another case._  

                The spark in his chest sputtered and died as Tomás realized he would soon be due for another vision; over the past six months, the longest he’d gone without one had been two weeks, and it was coming up on that now. 

                The seizures and visions and dreams had never been fun.  He hated feeling weak.  He missed enjoying food—oh, and he really, really hated migraines.  The visions he’d been having made him hurt and exhausted and distressed… but not afraid.  _Si_ , he’d feared losing his family and Marcus, and he’d worried constantly about how much he could ask of them and still have their love. 

                But he’d never been afraid of God before this.  

                                               

 

 

 

     

                “Tomás?” asked the doctor gently.

                “I’m afraid,” he confessed. 

                “Of what?”

                “Of… of my next seizure.” 

                It wasn’t exactly a lie. 

                “That’s understandable.  They are a very frightening thing to have happen to you but try to remember that most of the time they aren’t dangerous to you, not in themselves.  The most important thing is protecting your head from injury and making sure your breathing passage is clear.”

                “Marcus looks after that,” Tomás said under his breath.  No matter how bad it got, he would still have Marcus.

                She nodded her head towards his face, at the fading remnants of the bruise and the broken lip.  “I see you’ve had a few injuries.”

                “He… sometimes he misses but he really tries—“

                “I’m not being critical.  I’m sure he’s doing an amazing job.  Just, if you can, if you feel like a seizure is coming, try to make sure you’re near something soft in case you fall.  Or try sitting down.  Marcus may already know this, but he should turn you on your side if possible.”

                Tomás nodded.

                Dr. Danika paused to write some notes.  She didn’t speak for about a solid minute.  Then she asked, “When is your neurology appointment?”

                “In three weeks.”

                “Hmm.  Okay, the neurologist will ask you a lot more questions about your seizures and may very well want to see you and Marcus together so he can be educated to support you.  Do you think Marcus will be okay to go in with you?”

                “Oh, yes, it’s hard to keep him out, really.”

                She chuckled.  “Also, normally a neurologist or a psychiatrist would do the prescribing of anti-depressants but I want to start you on something sooner than that.  There are a number of drugs to choose from that can have significant beneficial effects for both anxiety and depression, but they can take up to eight weeks to have an effect.  I’d rather get you on that road now rather than wait an additional three weeks.”

                “I think I’d like that.”  Tomás hesitated, then said.  “Doctor… there’s another symptom that I’ve been having…. It’s not easy to talk about.”

                “Impotence?” she guessed.

                He nodded, his face flaming.

                “Is it that you get aroused but can’t maintain an erection… or can you get an erection at all?”

                Tomás could feel the heat right down to the roots of his hair.  “I, um…”

                “It’s just a bodily function to me, Tomás.”

                “Sorry, I was raised by women…“  He coughed.  “We never talked about these things…”

                “If you don’t mind my asking, who taught you about sex then?”

                “Telenovellas… and my priest.”

                Dr.  Danika grinned.  “How fascinating.”

                He looked down at his knees and mumbled, “I haven’t felt any interest in sex in months.  Maybe it’s weird to hear that from a priest…”

                “You’re a human being, Tomás.  Most of us have an interest in sex, priest or not.  Especially at your age.”

                “I did, I _have_ … until recently.”

                “Loss of sex drive is extremely common with depression, and with the physical trauma you’ve experienced.  The drug I want to prescribe may help with that but you should know that some of these drugs can have the opposite effect.  It really depends on how each individual reacts to it.  We’ll have to see what happens but, again, it may take several weeks.  Given that we don’t know exactly what is causing your seizures, I would rather not prescribe Viagra…”

                “Oh, god, no,” he blurted.

                “You’d be surprised how many men use it.  Even young ones like yourself.”

                “Please, no.”

                “All right.  So the anti-depressant is called Cymbalta, but it is available more cheaply in a generic form.  Do you have insurance?”

                “No… but it’s okay.”

                She raised her brows but didn’t comment.  “You start with a small dose and gradually step it up to the full dose.  The pharmacist will provide detailed instructions.  Sometimes people have some side effects for the first few days and then they adjust.  If it continues for more than three days, though, call me immediately and we’ll try something else.”

                “What sort of symptoms?”

                “Nausea, headache….”

                “I already have those.  It might be hard to tell the difference.”

                “Do you have nausea all the time or only in close proximity to the seizures?”

                He decided not to mention that, in addition to pre and post-seizure symptoms, he sometimes had waking visions or other experiences that could leave him in physical distress.  He trusted her but he didn’t want to put that much pressure on her credulity in a single visit.  “It… comes and goes.”

                “All right, then I can also prescribe an anti-nausea medication, for now.  The neurologist may have different ideas, but in the meantime, we want you to eat.”

                “Okay.”

                “So have you had any migraines since the one that brought you and Dr. O’Malley together?”

                “One, almost.  I took one of the pills and it helped.”

                “That’s very good news.  Sometimes it’s hard to find a pill that works.  I’d be happy to write a prescription for a few more.  When you get to the neurologist, he or she will probably want to try some other, preventative medication, and perhaps other pain remedies.  You can talk that over with them.    Since the CT scan didn’t show anything, so they’ll probably order some other tests, try to identify a cause for the seizures.”

                “What if… what if we don’t find a cause?”

                “I’ll tell you something, Tomás.  The brain is a very mysterious organ.  There’s a lot we don’t understand about it.  I’ve heard of cases of people suddenly developing seizures for a year or two, and then just stopping without our ever being able to figure out what caused them in the first place.  You don’t have a tumor, or epilepsy.  You can always treat the seizures without knowing what caused them.”

                “And… what if?”  Tomás took a long, long breath.  “What if I don’t want to treat the seizures?”

                Dr. Danika Adamczyk folded her hands, her brows rising high on her forehead.  She was evidently using her very best bedside manner as she said, carefully, “You just told me that you’re feeling anxious about them.  Why would you not want to treat them, Tomás?”

                “Because I…”  A thought occurred.  “You must have read this in the notes.”

                “You believe you’re receiving visions from God and they’re the cause of the seizures, is that what you mean?”

                “In part, yes.”

                “And that you don’t believe that modern medicine can help, but I suppose my question for you is, what if we could?”

                Tomás lifted his head and looked her directly in the eye.  “I’m concerned that if I stop the seizures, it will stop the visions.”

                She had no visible reaction, so he continued.

                “Because God has chosen me for this, it’s not for me to… to interfere.  Not in this.  He’s sending me revelation, how can I tell him, sorry, no thanks?  I don’t have any right to do that, especially because it’s to help other people.  So, yes, I am scared, but I can’t defy God’s will.”

                He waited.

                At length, the doctor said softly, “I’m sorry if this is inappropriate…”

                “What?”

                “I’m going to ask God to be kind to you in my prayers, Tomás Ortega.  I hope you don’t mind.”

                He turned his palm up and extended it, just a few inches.  She put hers on it and gripped it once, briefly.

                “I don’t mind.”

               

 

               

 

 

                Tomás walked out of doctor’s office with a handful of prescriptions and a treaty obligating him to return in two weeks.  The procedure for the physical exam itself had been quick and uneventful.  She’d clucked over the bruises and the scabs on his knees, then given him a booklet about balanced nutrition to follow.  Finally, she’d smiled at him as he exited and reminded him to call if he had trouble with the new pills.  His homework was to start gaining weight.

                Marcus’s head snapped up from the magazine he was flipping through and he surveyed Tomás for signs of distress.  Tomás gave him a quick smile and a nod of reassurance.

                “Prescriptions?” Marcus queried.

                “Yes.”

                “Might as well get them filled here, yeah?”

                After seeing the receptionist to make the next appointment, they went downstairs to the pharmacy.  The total expenditure for all the medicines was terrifying, especially when Tomás tallied in his head what it would be costing per month, and this before they even got to the neurologist.  Marcus paid it without a blink, though.  Exorcist Support Fund, Tomás remembered.  No worrying allowed.

                “How about we get coffee?” Marcus proposed.

                With a Starbucks on nearly every corner, they easily found a place that served up two cups of thick, dark roast.  Marcus always drank his black, while Tomás preferred his creamy and sweet.  The first time he’d seen this, Marcus had demanded to know how Tomás could so adulterate one of the elixirs of life.  It had been one of their more memorable quarrels and had ended with them not speaking to each other for nearly an hour—after which the entire subject was forgotten.  That was one thing that Tomás had always enjoyed about their relationship, how they could debate and squabble and be direct with each other.  His _abuela_ had been very blunt and outspoken, and Tomás had grown up accustomed to that level of dialogue in the home.  She hadn’t been unkind or even especially rude; she had just come to believe early in life that the truth was the shortest distance between two points.  Tomás had missed that until Marcus arrived in his life.  Sure, Olivia was equally honest with her feelings and opinions, but her temper could make their relationship an emotional roller coaster at times.

                Uncharacteristically, however, Marcus was fiddling with his coffee cup and obviously holding something back. 

                “What?” Tomás asked.  “You look like your head is going to blow off.”

                “Blow _up_ ,” Marcus corrected.  “My head is going to blow up.”

                “Whatever.”

                “I want to ask how it went.”

                “Why don’t you then?”

                “I thought you might want a little privacy.”

                “Marcus…”  Tomás reached across and touched his partner’s hand.  Marcus glanced around uneasily but didn’t withdraw.  Tomás had noticed that Marcus was uncomfortable sometimes with public displays of affection.  He wasn’t sure yet if was all such displays, or only those between men; it was an issue for another day.  “I don’t have any secrets from you.  You want to know how it went?  I think God wanted me to meet this doctor.”

                Marcus took on a somewhat strange expression.  “Is that so?”

                “I think… I think she’s someone I can trust.”

                Ever the cynic, Marcus said, “Why is that?”

                “I told her the truth and she didn’t commit me to a mental hospital.”

                “Which truth?”

                “That I’m… receiving prophecy—”

                “Tomás!”  Marcus caught the attention of several nearby coffee-drinkers with his volume, and lowered it to demand, “Are you out of your mind?”

                “I guess so,” Tomás bit back.  Sometimes it seemed that Marcus had absolutely no confidence in his judgement, that he thought Tomás was a child who had somehow skipped through life until Marcus fortuitously happened upon him.

                “You know what happened the last time.”

                “It worked out, obviously.”

                “But what if it hadn’t?”

                “It did, though.”

                “Maybe she didn’t assess you as needing intervention today but who’s to say that day won’t come when she looks at you and changes her mind?”

                Tomás deliberately lowered his tone to exemplify what he thought was a reasonable decibel.  “I decided I could trust her.”

                “Based on what?  Last week you had a panic attack at the sight of a white coat and now you’ve decided to pour your heart out to a lady doctor!”

                “It was like how I decided to trust you even though I knew I shouldn’t,” Tomás hissed.

                That shut Marcus up for the moment.  He sat back in his chair, appearing shattered. 

                Tomás took a second to remind himself that, unlike Marcus, he’d had the privilege of being brought up by a loving mother and grandmother, and that this gave him the ability to have faith in other human beings.  He was always astounded and grateful that Marcus had somehow learned to be loving and generous despite the disadvantages of his childhood.  At times, though, it was very clear how that those early years had left their mark.  Marcus tended to believe in things only after he had been shown more than once.  Even his relationship with God was based more on direct experience than a leap of faith.  

                “Tomás… you’ll be the death of me, I swear.”

                Hearing this did nothing for his guilt complex, but Tomás knew that Marcus was tired of his apologies.  He tried, “It’s okay, I promise.”

                Marcus waved one hand in open surrender and sighed, “Don’t mind me, I’m just...”

                “Do you want to hear the rest?”

                “Go ahead, hit me.  What did she say when you told her?”

                “Not much.  She said she doesn’t know if it’s true or not, but she is open to the possibility, and as long as I keep talking openly with my doctors, she won’t send me to a psychiatrist.  Yes, I suppose she could always change her mind.”

                “But _why_ did you tell her, Tomás?  Was that really necessary?”

                “I was trying to explain why…”  Tomás hesitated.  He knew that this might not go over well.  “… why I might not want to stop the seizures.”

                Marcus turned a long stare on Tomás.  His expression was impossible to read.  “Oh,” he said, at length.

                “What?”

                Marcus rubbed his forehead.  He said, slowly, “We’d better go somewhere else to talk.”

                “That sounds ominous, but okay.”

                They left the coffee shop and walked without speaking until they came upon a small, municipal park.  It was little more than a manicured square of not-quite green, with a handful of trees and several benches in need of a fresh coat of paint.  A few people were processing across it with their dogs.  One of the benches was occupied by a man who appeared to be sleeping off something, or perhaps just sleeping.  The trees were beginning to produce their summer coats, still in shades of the palest green. 

                Tomás and Marcus sat down side by side on an empty bench. 

                Finally, Marcus spoke, and his words punched Tomás in the gut:   “I think God and I might be having a permanent falling out.”

                Tomás had never forgotten the night when Marcus had told him about his vision of God as a boy, how moved he had been by the sentiment in Marcus’s voice.  And then the pain, when Marcus had spoken some months later about not hearing God’s voice, his fear that he was an empty vessel.  From the start, Marcus’s relationship with God had seemed to Tomás as sincere and as deeply felt as that of any martyr.  It was one of the things that had attracted Tomás to Marcus and he couldn’t bear the thought that he’d had anything to do with Marcus losing it.  The sun was shining warm on their faces, chasing away the lingering bitterness of the wind off the lake.  It seemed a painfully beautiful display of God’s creation but Tomás didn’t think he could point it out without coming off as trite and condescending.   Marcus would see right through any of the rote reassurances he might have offered to some parishioner in doubt.

                “I assume,” Marcus continued, “that you don’t want to stop the seizures because it could mean that you would not be following God’s plan for you.”

                “ _Si_ … that’s right.”

                “But the thing is… I do want to stop the seizures.  How could I not?”

                Tomás turned his head and opened his mouth, but Marcus kept talking, overriding whatever he might have said.

                “I hate them.”  Marcus’s voice was trembling with emotion.  “I hate the seizures and the visions and… all of it.  I want you to take whatever pills or treatments the doctors suggest and stop all of it, and I don’t give a damn about what God wants.”

                “You said you didn’t mind, that you—you like your new job.”

                “I’ll happily take care of you for the rest of my life, Tomás, but that doesn’t mean I’m content to sit back and watch you suffer.  Especially if you don’t have to.  And I know you don’t want to suffer either.”

                “I don’t, but—”

                “There will always be possessed souls to save, you don’t need to be a prophet.”

                “—but this is God’s will.”

                Marcus turned an angry glare upon Tomás.  He spoke with such fierceness that Tomás shrank back a little. 

                “Let me tell you about God’s _will_ , Tomás.  First it was his will to send you a few dreams, and that was a little unpleasant, but fine, it brought us together.  Then it was his will to put you in a demon’s headspace.  Not much fun for you but you figured out how to work with it.  Next he starts sending you full-on visions.  Too bad if that means you have to live as an invalid most of the time.”

                Tomás tried again to speak.  Marcus held up a hand, commanding him to silence.

                “But _He_ wasn’t done, yeah?  To make sure that you can keep doing it and maybe not fall into a suicidal depression, He sends me back to help out.  And then, once He has everything the way He wants it, only then does He show His real hand.  He takes over your body or he sends something to do it for Him, and leaves you like a broken puppet.”

                Tomás put a hand on Marcus’s arm; Marcus shook him off.

                “You can’t tell me it isn’t still bothering you.  Four days later and you aren’t yourself, even though you’re trying to pretend!”

                “Marcus—“

                “Something came down and inhabited your body, Tomás.  _That_ was God’s will.”  

                 “I don’t want to talk about that.”

                “I know you don’t, because He hurt you that much… and you think you have to just accept it!  _Que sera, sera_ , right?”

                Maybe Tomás was bound to accept whatever God chose for him, but he did _not_ have to put up with this from Marcus.  He stood and took several steps, fully intending to walk away.  As quickly as he might have stopped a possessed soul from making an escape, Marcus darted up and grabbed his arm.  Tomás spun to yell in Marcus’s face:  “I said I’m not going to talk about it!”

                “Too bad, because I’m done tiptoeing around you!” Marcus had seized both of Tomás’s upper arms and was making him stand face-to-face with him.  Short of punching him, Tomás was more or less stuck there.  He cast a desperate look over Marcus’s shoulder; it was the only evasion he had.

                “Admit it,” Marcus ground out, relentless.  “You’re _terrified_ , Tomás—and it’s not like I can blame you.  I’ve never been so afraid as I was in that church.  I had to watch and I nearly shit myself looking at that—whatever it was.”

                 “What happened to this being how God loves me?” Tomás choked.  He knew that people were staring at their little drama, but he couldn’t control any of it, as usual. 

                The grip on his arms loosened but did not fall away.  Marcus said, a little more like the man that Tomás knew, “I said it before.  His love comes at a cost.”

                “You can’t stop it.”

                “Maybe not, but I can try.  And _you_ can try, Tomás.  You can try the medications and see what happens.  You said you were tired of having no choice… well, now you have a choice.”

                “And I can choose to continue doing as God wills.”

                “When did you get so goddamned Presbyterian on me?”

                Tomás blinked at him, not following.    

                “I know how much you care about justice.  You bend over backwards to help people.”  Marcus pointed at the homeless man on the bench.  “When you see a person who is maybe cold or hungry, do you say it must be God’s will that they’re lying there?  No, you try to change it, because _that_ is the God that you believe in.  A God who cares and wants us to take action.  The man I met at St. Aquinas believed in that kind of God.  You drove all the way out there to find some stranger you’d come across in a dream.  Because you cared that much.  Well, God’s justice should apply to you too.”

                It was certainly one of the best arguments Tomás could recall hearing from Marcus in recent memory.  But it also twigged a memory, a book he had read in seminary—yes, a book about the prophets by a famous rabbi whose name he couldn’t remember.  The thesis had been that prophets were a living embodiment of God’s love and compassion and his need for justice for his people.  He saw His people suffering and He made the prophet burn with passion for change.  The prophet was a sacrifice on behalf of others.  The prophet suffered, _si_ , but the entire point was to better the lives of others.

                Tomás said, “I see your point, Marcus.  I do.”

                 “But…?”

                “I think I’d like to walk back now.”

                Marcus frowned, clearly pained.  He released Tomás from his hold and said, “All right.”

                Tomás made to go, but before he could take more than two steps, Marcus gripped his arm again, albeit with a lot less pressure than the last time.  “Wait.”

                Tomás stilled.

                “I’m sorry,” Marcus said.  “I’m so sorry.”

                “It’s—”

                “I was just angry… obviously.  Because God made the perfect choice in you.”

                “Stop it.”  Tomás’s face burned at the apparent mockery.

                “I’m serious.  You’re ready to throw yourself on the fire for people you don’t know and for a God who bloody well knows it and is fine with taking advantage, and it’s—it’s breaking my heart.”

                Marcus crumbled, then.  Standing up, still, he put his hand up to grip his face, trying to hide his eyes.  He shook, oblivious to the eyes of stranger upon him.  Tomás put a hand on his shoulder and felt helpless.

                “We save people,” Tomás said.  “We can save a lot more.”

                “I—saved people—before all this.”

                “But it took longer, and people suffered.  Sometimes they died.  Sometimes they lost their souls.”

                Marcus stiffened his spine, his head jerking up.  His eyes were shining with tears, his face wet.  “Right,” he said. “So God tortures one man in order to prevent the suffering of a handful.  Fine, maybe that moral calculus is acceptable to him.  But it’s not to me, and it shouldn’t be to you.”

                “You really think a pill could make a difference?  Just a little thing like that could change what God has decreed?”

                “I’d like to find out,” Marcus returned.  “And has it occurred to you that maybe that’s what God wants you to do?  Maybe that’s why I’m here, to make sure that you try.”

                If that was true, then Marcus was the manifestation of God’s love for him, Tomás thought. It hadn’t even occurred to him before:  God _wanted_ Marcus here, and Marcus wanted Tomás to fight for himself.  Perhaps God was speaking through Marcus right now.  Perhaps, in order to completely surrender to the will of God, he must surrender to the will of Marcus.

                “I’ll try,” Tomás promised.  “All right?  I’ll try the pill and we’ll see what happens.  But if it stops the visions then I’m going to stop the pill.  Is that acceptable?”

                Some of the pain on Marcus’s face seemed to ease.  He wiped at his nose with his sleeve.  “Yes… thank you.”

                He collapsed into Tomás’s embrace, and Tomás into his.  For several seconds, Tomás kept his face buried against Marcus’s neck.  Then he raised his face slightly and whispered, “Please tell me you won’t give up your faith because of m—because you don’t agree with His plan.  You yourself told me God isn’t a sheep dog that comes when you call.  I totally bought into that argument you know.”

                Marcus chuckled, the bass rumble reverberating pleasantly throughout Tomás’s body.  “You know I’ll never stop believing in Him.  It’s just too personal for me now.”

                Silently, Tomás tried to convey his gratitude that Marcus was with him, being angry at God on his behalf.  They stood there in the park, under the eyes of God and any number of angels and demons, and they held onto each other for a long time.

 

 

 

 

                The next day was Saturday, and so it was a good day for Uncle Tomás and Uncle Marcus to take Luis to the new movie about dinosaurs.  Luis was an absolute lunatic on the subject of giant, man-eating lizards and spent the entire afternoon in a state of high excitement, nattering constant information at the both of them about the various species, interspersed with movie trivia.  Marcus revealed himself to be surprisingly well-informed about dinosaurs too—but Tomás had to chastise himself for being surprised every time Marcus demonstrated a knowledge of something other than demons.

                Earlier in the day, Tomás had been feeling a bit dizzy, and as the day progressed, he realized that it was no accident, as his senses began to report strange things.  It had to be a vision on the way, only he had no way of knowing what to expect this time.  So far, it felt like the usual, if such a thing could be said of a mind-altering encounter with the divine.  Past experience told him that it could happen within hours or possibly not until the next day, and in the meantime he was not going to let it interfere with his time with Luis. 

                So he endured the roars of the T-Rex as best he could.  He didn’t know what else he could do other than to cancel the day, and he couldn’t bring himself to do that.  He sat in the theatre with his heart pounding for reasons having nothing to do with the action on the screen.  He desperately wanted to hold Marcus’s hand but they were seated on either side of Luis as per his nephew’s request. 

                The moment the credits rolled, he bolted up and nearly ran to the washroom.  Shutting himself in a stall, he silently mouthed Psalm 23, forcing himself breathe each line as slowly as he could, but his brain was already not working as it should and he kept garbling it. 

                “The lord is my shepherd… he leadeth me… even though I walk… through the valley of the shadow of death… he leadeth me to lie down… in the valley of death… God, please. _Please._   Please take this cup away from me.”

                He heard the words leave his mouth and, immediately, was terribly ashamed. 

                “ _Perd_ _óname… perd_ _óname_ ,” he whispered.  “I ask the Holy Spirit to bring me acceptance.  Thank you for choosing me, for loving me.  God grant me… grant me… please…”

                His brain was blank.

                “Tomás?”

                It was Marcus, of course, his voice apprehensive and concerned.  It helped.

                “ _Si..si_!”  Tomás struggled to find some English words.  “Be right there!” 

                He managed to force down the worst of the fear.  He went out with a smile for Luis, who had a million things to say about the movie.  Tomás listened and nodded and wondered if this was what it felt like to be counting out the last day before an execution, final visit with family and a last meal while trying to process the strange truth of an impending conclusion.  How strange to chat with family when that relationship was about to end with absolute finality at the appointed hour.  How ridiculous to eat when one’s heart would very soon no longer need the fuel, but Olivia had asked them to stay for dinner.  Marcus appealed to Tomás, and he nodded acceptance. 

                He made it through, although the roasted chicken tasted like dirty pennies and he was barely able to swallow more than a few bites.  Afterwards, Marcus hurried them back to the hotel after a quick, hushed conversation with Olivia.  She sent them on their way with yet another care package.  Their fridge was nearly full of her plastic containers by now.

                “Do you want to lay on the bed and watch TV?” Marcus offered once they were in the sanctuary of their room.  “Maybe it will distract you.”

                Marcus had taken to heart Dr. Danika’s advice about how to take care of Tomás before and after seizures, not that he hadn’t been doing his best before.  He clearly wanted Tomás to be near something soft.

                “Don’t know if… if…” Tomás couldn’t form the rest of it.

                “You don’t know if you can watch TV?”

                “I can’t.” 

                He started pacing back and forth in front of the bed. 

                “Can’t?” Marcus prompted.

                “Can’t.”  _I can’t stop moving,_ he meant.  _I can’t stop_. 

                “You aren’t actually using your words, sweetheart.  Why don’t you come sit and pray with me?”

                “Stand.”

                “All right, we’ll stand.”

                Marcus came and stood in front of Tomás, at the foot of the bed, and grasped both of his hands.  He bowed his head over their hands and Tomás was able to copy his movements.  Marcus began to speak.  Tomás couldn’t take in a single word of it.  It didn’t matter; the timbre of Marcus’s voice was enough to give him something to hang onto.  He didn’t know how long they stood that way.  It could have been minutes or hours.  The steady, rumble of Marcus never ceased, merely paused here and there for a breath or a swallow.  Tomás held onto him with all his strength.  He might have been hurting Marcus but Marcus didn’t complain or show any discomfort.

                At length, Marcus stopped.  He said something that made no sense.  Tomás stared helplessly at him, shook his head, gulping at the air.  Marcus smoothed a hand up and down one arm and cupped his chin with the other, talking his nonsense.  It didn’t matter, because Marcus was God and God was looking after him.  God loved him, because Marcus… Marcus was here, and Marcus was leading Tomás somewhere, helping him lie down on something soft as his vision filled with a froth of noise-light.  He was blind, he was deaf, and it was okay, because God loved him and there was Marcus.

                At last, Tomás surrendered.

 

 

 

               

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this brings us to the end of this leg of the journey. I have spent way too long dithering over this chapter, so here it is and I hope it brings things to a reasonable conclusion. Isn't it weird how at one moment you can be churning out words effortlessly and then all of a sudden it's a struggle? 
> 
> Anyway, a sequel is definitely kicking around in my brain.
> 
> I'm very proud of myself for finishing this. It's the first long(ish) fic I've completed in quite a few years. Perhaps the dry spell is finally over...


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